#so important to me that i carved out time after work monday and tuesday to sketch and finish him lol

[plumbus-central]

possibly the most specialist little guy ever

@zachposting 's #CASDTIYS from twitter

[anextrapart]

Kim has a long day at work and all she wants is to get home and hold ian but hes asleep so she stands at his crib watching him and jimmy arrives wraps himself behind her and comforts her (and then maybe later he wakes up while kim is showering and jimmy hands him to her and they spend the rest of the night on the nursery sofa talking with ian in kims arms and her legs on jimmys lap)

Kim's had the week from hell. Multiple large cases collided at once, all demanding priority attention. On top of that, there’s an untimely flu bug going around HHM, leaving them short-staffed. Shit rolls downhill, as they say, and so Kim and the other lower level associates are feeling the pain.

Monday was busy, but almost manageable. Tuesday, she’d barely carved out twenty minutes to meet Jimmy for a quick lunch, which had fallen directly in the middle of Ian’s usual naptime--he’d slept through the entire thing. Between the late nights, the early mornings, and the last few days of working lunches at her desk, she hasn’t seen her son while he’s been awake in nearly three days. Time spent with Jimmy hasn’t been much better.

The plan is to make it home tonight at a reasonable hour. Kim doesn’t allow much to break her focus from her work, but in the couple of spare minutes she’s had today to stretch out the kinks in her neck and look forward to slowing down and catching her breath, she thinks about how nice it will be to just sit quietly at home with her boys. She’ll need to bring home files to work on over the weekend, of course, but she won’t need to come into the office for the next two days. Tonight she should even make it home in time for Ian’s bath. Jimmy will pass him to her wrapped warm and snug in an oversized towel, smelling of clean baby shampoo, and his still-damp hair will be slicked into a side-part the way Jimmy always does when it’s his turn to bathe him, looking disgustingly cute. 

Naturally, more time-sensitive work comes flying in at the last minute, and an exhausted Kim doesn’t make it home until 8pm.

She hears the shower running when she walks in, locking up behind her, which can only mean Ian is asleep and Jimmy took the opportunity to escape with the baby monitor and clean up. She drops her briefcase on a chair and slips out of her shoes before padding quietly over to Ian’s crib, smiling at his peaceful sleeping face. She watches him for a while, until Jimmy steps up behind her and wraps her in a gentle hug.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I tried to keep him up but he conked out on me half an hour ago.”

“It’s fine. I’ll see him tomorrow.”

Jimmy sighs, and she’s sure he knows she’s disappointed. “We could wake him?”

“He’ll be grumpy and miserable, we’re not doing that.” She won’t indulge the selfish part of her that wants it: to wake him up just this once. Jimmy would let her, though, and it’s insane but she loves him for it. He’d wake their sleeping baby just so Kim could cuddle him for a few minutes, and he’d then weather the storm of trying to get Ian back to sleep.

“He does miss you,” Jimmy says, hugging her a bit tighter. “He told me.”

Kim leans back into him. “Oh, yeah?” “Mmhm. Something about how he knows you’re a very important kickass lawyer so he doesn’t blame you for being so busy sometimes, but he also can’t wait to spend the day with you tomorrow.”

“Very mature for a four-month-old.”

“I mean he spit his oatmeal cereal at me right after, so it’s a mixed bag, really.”

Kim laughs, turning to kiss him soundly. “Pretty sure he gets that from you.”

Jimmy hums happily into her mouth. “We both know you’re more mischievous than you let on, Wexler.”

“Slander.”

Shaking his head with a grin, Jimmy nudges her towards the bathroom. “Go take a shower, counselor. I’ll heat you up some dinner.”

Kim squeezes his hand before doing just that. She’s tempted to take an indulgently long shower, but she really is hungry, so she keeps it short. Opting for being as comfortable as possible, she dresses in her favorite pajama pants and Jimmy’s college sweatshirt.

Jimmy’s in the kitchen when she emerges, setting a place for her at the counter, and the microwave is counting down as it warms up her dinner. He stops it just before it reaches zero, avoiding the loud beep.

Kim is just sitting down to eat when there’s a noise from the baby monitor sitting on the counter. She narrows her eyes at Jimmy and he laughs, holding his hands up innocently. “I swear I didn’t do anything.”

Grinning, Kim abandons her plate of food and rushes over to Ian’s crib.

“Hey, little man,” she whispers, meeting his eyes for the first time in days and pretending there’s no waver in her voice at all.

Ian is old enough to smile now, has been doing it more and more, and seeing his face light up when he sees her is one of the best feelings in the world.

Kim scoops him up, settling him to rest his head on her shoulder. He’s clearly still sleepy and she expects he’ll be back under any minute, but just feeling him cuddle into her and curl his little fist into the neck of her shirt is enough to settle the last bit of residual stress she’s been carrying from the entire week.

“I missed you,” she murmurs, just for him.

She carries him back over to the couch, sinking down happily to sit. She closes her eyes and drifts for a little while, not letting herself fall asleep just yet. Eventually she feels Jimmy come over and sit beside her, warm and close.

Kim never thought she could have all this, that she’d even want it, but somehow she and Jimmy have managed to make a life where she can have a career and a family. She can love her job and love her kid and love her... Jimmy, and it all just works. 

She drops her head onto Jimmy’s shoulder, shifting as close to him as she can and curling her legs up over his lap.

“You’re happy?” she asks lightly. She knows, really, but it’s nice to hear.

Jimmy laughs, like he can’t imagine being anything but. “Yeah, Kim.” He kisses the top of her head, rests a hand on Ian’s sleeping back. “I’m happy.”

-

-

[dastardlydandelion]

Billy having the bust appendix episode?

so i combined these into one thingy??

also the latter, uh, it's. like?? i played w ur prompt, dude, chose to focus more on the concept of "not lasting" w susan and max tho bc if i write neil for too long it'll inevitably turn into another murder fic.

ao3 link

content warnings: referenced/discussed abuse, brief suicidal ideation

“Day four of fever, fella. That’s no fun.” Susan sets the thermometer aside with a frown and brushes the back of her hand over his cheek.

Billy blinks slowly at the touch. It wasn’t that long ago that he would’ve pushed her away. He hasn’t exactly enjoyed having the Stomach Flu From Hell for the better half of the week, but he supposes if there was ever a time to get sick, it’s now. Because these past few days have been the last few days he’s ever going to get with Susan and Max. He can use being sick as an excuse to let them get close like this. He can let himself let them close without feeling defensive or embarrassed because after tonight, he’ll never see them again.

“I feel better,” he mumbles as she brushes his fringe back, pad of her thumb gingerly lingering over the nick in his brow. “Really, Sue, s’not as bad today.”

And it’s not. Today’s Wednesday and he’s been feeling shitty since Sunday night, sluggish and nauseous with a nagging stomachache. He managed not to puke up Sunday dinner until Monday morning, although he didn’t actually make it to the bathroom. Susan scrubbed it out of his bedroom carpet even though Billy told her to leave it. Max stayed home from school to keep him company, which really…genuinely meant a lot to Billy, considering skipping school meant sacrificing some of the little time remaining with her friends. And she did it to just to hang out with his sweaty, grouchy, probably contagious and definitely less sociable self.

His stomachache got worse throughout the day but he hadn’t said anything about it to anyone. Didn’t say anything on Tuesday either, even though by evening it hurt so fucking bad it was like there was an invisible knife carving into his guts, blade twisting so terribly the only thing that helped at all was curling into a fetal position. Billy was almost frightened, actually. He doesn’t believe he’s ever felt worse than the torture he went through Tuesday, not even at his father’s hands.

But he couldn’t say anything. Not with everything going on. He wouldn’t do anything to possibly compromise the plan. Couldn’t let himself do anything that could delay their escape. So he sucked it up and kept his mouth screwed shut, endured in silence.

The relentless agony of nonexistent knives twisting through his guts kept him up all night. Then very early this morning, just as the sunrise’s first rays began to lighten the sky, the pain subsided. Billy still feels uncomfortable and he’d probably hurl again if he got a whiff of goat cheese or canned sardines, but it doesn’t compare to the misery of last night.

“How about I put the kettle on? Ginger tea is good for stomach bugs.”

“Nah.”

“What about chamomile?”

“No.”

“Peppermint?”

“Stop, Sue. I don’t want tea.”

“Please. You’ve barely kept anything down all week and you’re sweating like a turkey at Christmas. You’ll feel even worse if you get dehydrated, Billy.”

Susan retracts her hand with a fretful noise in her throat and turns to the door. With a sudden spike of panic that she’s— she’s leaving —he frees an arm from the blanket and grabs her wrist. Susan jumps as though she’s touched a hot stove. Billy immediately lets go. He wasn’t thinking.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Susan, I just…”

Chewing her lip, she nods down at him. She carefully sits on the edge of his bed, one leg folding on the mattress, opposite foot still on the floor. She takes his face in her chilly hands and Billy heaves out a sigh.

“I wish things were different,” she murmurs. “If the, uh…if the p-place Max and I are going accepted boys your age, you’d be coming with us. I promise I’d take you with us if I could.”

The shelter doesn’t allow male children over age twelve, Susan had informed Billy the night she told him they were leaving. She’d said it apologetically, eyes sorrowful like the look she’s giving him right now. She’s said it like it scraped her throat on the way out, tragic and grave as though she were reading him his own obituary.

It was the oddest thing Billy couldn’t begin to comprehend. He wouldn’t go with them even if going with them was an option. And never had he ever expected it to be an option. He doesn’t understand why Susan is looking at him like that.

“I just grabbed you. I shouldn’t have grabbed you.”

Susan’s face twitches like he’s the one being weird, like it isn’t she who’s looking at him with all these things he never wanted from her.

“You didn’t hurt me, Billy, just startled me a bit. I’m as skittish as a doe and of course today is…it’s a big day.”

“…what time?”

Susan spares a glance to his door. Still shut. Neil’s getting ready for work and he wouldn’t dare enter Billy’s room right now anyway. Wouldn’t risk catching whatever Billy has. He’d sent Susan in the bathroom Monday after Billy had barely stumbled out, wan from the latest round of purging, in drill sergeant mode and demanding that Susan bleach every contaminated tile.

“Noon. I want to drive in the daylight. Max is staying home from school. I told your father she caught your bug.”

Billy raises a brow.

“She didn’t,” Susan clarifies. “But he didn’t question the excuse. She’s sleeping in, I think it’s best to let her sleep in. It’s a big day.”

“Big day,” Billy repeats quietly.

Susan’s hands are still on his face, gentle and cool. Billy feels hot. The past few days he’s felt too cold or too hot, no in between. He’s either burrowing under the blankets to ward off the icy chills or laying on the bathroom tile to ease the sensation of roasting in his skin.

“I’m going to make you some tea, okay? You don’t have to drink it, but I’d appreciate it if you did. Fluids are important, Billy.”

Susan slides her hands off and Billy wonders if perhaps that’s the last time she’ll ever touch him. She leaves his room. Quietly closes the door behind her. Billy rolls onto his side and wraps his arm around his stomach, wondering if he should’ve let her closer before. If he should’ve let Max closer too.

Maybe it’s better he didn’t. Maybe losing them would hurt more if he did. And it does hurt. Even when the minutes tick down to the time they will exchange their final goodbyes, he’ll never say it out loud, but it hurts. It’s going to gut him when they go.

But it’s good that they’re going. And it’s good that he’s not. Billy ensured early on that Susan knew never to act like his mother. And Susan never seemed particularly passionate about trying, maybe there was even some relief for her that Billy had shut down every feeble attempt, that she never had to claim him. Billy never asked for Max either. The responsibility of a little sister. The pressure of having to set a good example for her, more reasons for Neil to be pissed at him whenever he inexorably failed. Max thought he was cool when they were younger, then there was that really rough patch after the move, and now things are better.

Things are probably the best they’ve ever been between him and Susan, between him and Max, and he’s going to miss them. Billy wants them to leave. Billy wants to be left. But the separation, the severing, the knowledge that he will never see them again pounds his heart like brass knuckles. He’s never going to watch Susan take another spider outside in a tissue, humming her weird little singsong. He’s never going to have to groan and roll his eyes over being Max’s designated chauffeur to the arcade, the park, the monster movie matinee.

He’s going to be alone with Neil.

Susan brings Billy a ceramic mug of steaming tea. She feels his forehead and probes at the sides of his neck, humming in concern. He would never let her fawn over him without a fight on a normal day. He’s only receptive now because he knows they aren’t going to be in each other’s lives anymore. He doesn’t know what to do with the fact that he kind of likes the fawning, but maybe he wouldn’t— maybe he wouldn’t like it at all if she wasn’t leaving, maybe the leaving makes it special. Or maybe it’s easier to think of it that way than to wonder if it would’ve been better to have this kind of relationship all along.

Billy watches the steam rise from the mug. He doesn’t touch the tea. He’s exhausted and he finds himself drifting, dozing off…

When Billy blinks his eyes back open, he’s dismayed to find his stomach hurting again. It might actually be the stomachache that wakes him up. Either the stomachache or Max in the doorway, hand on the knob.

“Are you awake?”

“I am now.” Billy begins to push himself up on his elbows, pauses when his gut lurches.

So much for that plan.

He settles back, and rolls onto his side, tucking his knees up to his chest under the blanket. Some of the pain abates. This position is still the winner.

“Are you okay?” Max rests her hand on the mattress, cocking her head to the side. “Do you need the trash can again?”

“Nah.”

“Okay…My mom’s loading up the car.”

“Yeah?” Billy really hopes she isn’t here to ask him to help. If she does, he will, but just the idea of rolling out of bed sounds like a grandiose effort.

“Yeah. Can I hang out for a little bit?”

Something thick rises in his throat. “Sure thing, shitbird.”

Max climbs onto the bed and over Billy, jostling him enough to make him queasy. She sits at his back. He can’t see her but he feels her hand settle on his shoulder.

“Your room smells like gym socks and barf,” she remarks, scowl audible in her voice.

“When you catch this from me, your room’s gonna smell the same way,” he mutters. Only after the words have left his lips, does Billy really realize what he’s said.

Max’s bedroom here on Cherry Lane isn’t really her bedroom anymore. Susan’s putting her belongings in the car. The next time Max gets sick, maybe it won’t be in a bedroom of her own at all. Or it will be her bedroom in a house far away from here. It’ll be a room Billy will never go in and he’ll never have the opportunity to tease her.

“I’m kinda nervous about the shelter, Billy,” she admits, voice quiet and unsure. “I was nervous when we first moved to Hawkins too. But this is a different kind of nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous,” Billy mutters. “You’re gonna be safer there than you are here.”

“Supposedly,” Max huffs. “You know Neil’s going to be pissed when he finds out. What if he comes after us?”

“I won’t let him,” Billy declares, meaning every word.

“Could you really stop him?”

Billy curls a little tighter in an effort to ease the pain spreading through his stomach. It’s beginning to be more than a nuisance but he’s doing his best not to be distracted. Max needs him right now. This is the last time he’ll ever be an older brother. That’s more important, that’s the thing he needs to devote his attention to. He never asked for the job and he hasn’t been exceptional at it, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least try to soothe his soon to be ex-sister’s worries with her small hand shaking ever so slightly on his shoulder.

He cranes his neck back to meet her eye and flashes a winning grin he hopes looks less forced than it feels.

”Let’s put it this way, he’d have to kill me to get to you.”

Instead of being reassured, Max looks spooked.

“I really thought he was going to, you know. That night.”

Ah, that night. Billy knows which. He was feeling pretty ballsy, feeling strong and bold after a good workout and a couple of beers. When Neil got in his shit that night, for the very first time, Billy threw a punch.

He remembers thinking that things would go in his favor if he could just get Neil to the ground. That’s the last thing he remembers, actually. Thinking that. And maybe it really would’ve gone in his favor if he’d gotten Neil down. But he didn’t.

Billy doesn’t actually remember what happened. But it definitely wasn’t that.

“He wouldn’t really go that far, Max. Neil talks a big game, but I’m all he’s got and he knows it.”

Max doesn’t seem convinced in the least.

“I think that’s what made Mom decide we had to go,” she says quietly. “That night.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Billy says, tone sharp.

Max glowers, clearly disagreeing. Billy matches her stare.

“…I wonder if there will be other kids my age,” Max murmurs eventually, changing the subject.

Evidently neither of them want to argue their remaining time together away.

If there are kids her age, they’ll be girls, like Neil always wanted. No boys over twelve permitted stay. Billy shifts his head back, eyes sliding from Max and off to the wall. He’s starting to feel Tuesday night’s painful sort of nausea. Like his guts are going through a meat grinder.

“It’ll suck if I’m just surrounded by adults the whole time. However long that’s gonna be…Mom wouldn’t say.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know yet, Max.”

“Maybe not. She’s trying to keep her cool but I can tell she’s nervous. Even more than me and I can’t let on that I’m nervous at all, not to Mom, because then she’ll really flip her lid. She tried so hard to convince me everything will be okay at the shelter. She’ll feel like a failure if she knows I’m scared and Neil’s already made her feel a failure over and over. I won’t do it too.”

This is the last conversation they’re ever going to have. This is the last time they’re ever going to talk to each other. Max is on the precipice of another massive move to somewhere new. All the secrecy and uncertainties surrounding it make it all the more of a transition and Billy’s last job as her older brother is this conversation. He’s trying to focus on it, on her, but the pain in his stomach is growing more insistent.

“Billy?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think we’ll ever see each other again?”

Billy curls his fingers in the bedsheets and silently begs for it not to get any worse. Not now. Max is leaving, Susan is leaving, fuck it— his fucking family is leaving and he can’t do this right now.

“…uh…yeah. I’m gonna get out of this Hawkins dump as soon as I can. And I bet you and your mom will find somewhere for yourselves better than this dump too, without Neil steering the wheel…how about, five years from now, we meet up in Cali? At least you and me, Sue can come too if she wants.”

Billy doesn’t think she would. Things have been better between him and his stepmother, yeah, but. He knows what he is. And Max— Max too, really. She thinks she’ll want to see him again now. Things have been better and maybe there’s even a part of her that still thinks of him as her cool big brother, but when she gets some distance, she’ll get some perspective and neither of them will want anything to do with him anymore. By then he’ll just be one more ugly part of an ugly life, the wayward offspring of the enemy.

By then he’ll be nothing but a reminder and no one wants reminders.

Max hums thoughtfully. “Yeah. We could do that, right? I always wanted to go back to San Diego…”

She squeezes his shoulder and Billy shuts his eyes. It’s getting harder to ignore how awful he feels. His whole body sagging with the overall illness laying him low. The torrent of nausea washing over him even though he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have anything left to puke up. The vengeful reprisal of the invisible knife, carving into his guts with a silent wrath.

“…does that sound good? …Billy?”

“What?” He blinks rapidly.

“The zoo, sick brain.” She huffs a little and gives his shoulder another squeeze. “In five years, let’s meet up at the zoo. In the gift shop where you stole the lion keychain.”

“Hey, you remember that.”

“You stole a gag giraffe toy for me too, the squishy one. When you squeeze it, the eyes pop out.”

“Pfft, yeah…I said, ‘look, it’s your mom’ and slipped it in your backpack.”

“I still have that giraffe, Billy,” she continues, voice determined. “I’m bringing it with me. I’ll look at it every day so I don’t forget our meeting place.”

Billy doesn’t really feel like talking anymore. He just wants to shove his head under the pillow and sleep it off, sleep it out. Wake up when his stomach isn’t being stabbed and his heart isn’t being strangled.

It’s a shining fantasy, that’s all. A fuzzy, glowing thing that will never happen. He’s just playing along for Max’s sake.

“What day, Max?”

“I was thinking the Fourth of July. You dad always made sure the fourth was the biggest Hargrove household holiday.” Billy can hear her roll her eyes. “Neither of us will ever forget that date, not even in five years.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “Sounds good. We’ll meet again at the San Diego Zoo gift shop in five years, on the fourth.”

“Pinky swear?”

Moving makes the pain worse. Any movements, even small ones.

“Nah. My hands are all sweaty and contagious, you don’t wanna touch ‘em.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m not getting you sick, Max,” Billy states firmly. “You’ve got enough going on.”

There is a pregnant pause.

“I really do,” she says eventually, her tone wary. “I hate Neil. But leaving him means leaving you and my friends, and going somewhere with a bunch of total strangers who have their own Neils who might come after us.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“It could! Stranger things have happened! Stranger things happen all the time!”

Max smacks her hands together and does something with her arms that shifts her weight and in turn, shifts the mattress. The minute movement multiplies the knives and the stabs, and Billy agonizes, grinding his molars against a hiss as those knives in his gut twist so hard he’s already seeing fireworks.

“What’s wrong?”

It hurts so bad. This isn’t the flu. Billy doesn’t know what it is, but it’s definitely not the flu.

“Billy?”

Christ, is he dying?

“Hey.” The back of Max’s hand rests against his cheek, smaller and warmer than her mother’s was, fabric bandaid under her knuckles now protecting that scab she wouldn’t stop picking at. “Geez, you’re burning up. Are you dying?”

He’d gibe back at her if he wasn’t seriously evaluating this possibility. He momentarily considers telling her that he is, that it’s so fucking bad it’s like knives. Then he blinks and Susan’s here, half-in-half-out, one foot over the threshold of his bedroom, the other still in the hallway.

“Time to go, Max.”

Max inhales sharply above his ear. Billy composes himself. He clears his throat and does his best to keep his voice steady.

“You heard her,” he mutters. “Get your ass outta here, lemme sleep this off.”

Abruptly, Max’s weight flops over his torso, arms squeezing. She’s hugging him. She’s hugging him and the pain is so bad it’s blinding. Billy traps a scream between his teeth, burns with shame as the tears spring to his eyes. He can’t bring himself to uncurl enough to push her off. He can’t bring himself to uncurl enough to hug her back.

“Germs,” he manages to grate out, hoping it’s enough.

Max’s arms unlatch and she climbs down from his bed. Billy’s head spins with reeling pain and nausea as she trots across his floor for the final time. She stands at her mother’s side, no longer his responsibility.

“Bye, Billy.” Max’s lips twitch in a sad smile, her hand raised in a halfhearted wave.

Susan steps aside to let her through and lingers for a heartbeat, frowning at him.

“I hope you feel better, Billy…”

“Your tea was bitter,” he gripes even though he hasn’t taken a single sip.

Susan’s eyes sharpen. She sees something, Billy isn’t sure what. Her lips part but he speaks first.

“Please get out.”

So he can cry. So he can scream. It hurts, he hurts. His stomach, his heart. It’s horrible, he’s horrible.

Susan bobs her head and obliges, making herself scarce. Billy hangs onto the sound of steps getting further away. He doesn’t let the tears fall until he hears the door close and then he’s smashing his face into his pillow to smother his sobs in cotton stuffing. Forces himself to stop because crying’s making it worse, much worse, his shoulders are hitching and moving is anguish.

Something is so very wrong.

Billy can’t even think around its wrongness. Last night the pain was sharpest in his side but right now it feels like his whole stomach is burning. He shifts even slightly and his stomach burns with white-hot pain but he’s so cold everywhere else.

Billy lies still and curled and quiet, impatiently waiting for it to get better. If he doesn’t move, it should get better. Curling like this helped last night and then this morning, the pain went away.

Will it go away again if he just keeps waiting?

He’s already waited so long.

Will it come back even worse?

Could it get worse?

That’s a stupid question, everything can get worse. If there is anything Billy has learned in his life, it’s that there’s no real rock bottom. It can always get worse.

That shove will turn into a slap. That slap will turn into a punch. That punch will multiply into many punches. The opposite arm will lock around your throat so those punches can keep pummeling the breath right out of you and the night you think you’re gonna punch back—

No such thing as bad as bad gets, no limits, maybe if he really is dying, it’s for the best. Maybe dying is the best goddamn thing that can happen to you in a world where invisible knives slicing into you and screams shriveling like dead leaves—

(everyone leaves, doesn’t matter if it’s autumn)

—behind your chattering teeth could very well be the least of your suffering. It hurts so bad he can barely breathe.

Billy forces himself out of bed anyway. He always gets up even when he doesn’t want to, but today he’s outstandingly bad at it. His organs must be pureed from all the silent stabs and his legs buckle under him. His hands fly out when he falters, ceramic mug knocked off his nightstand.

When the tea spills on him, it’s cold and Billy’s confused because it’s supposed to be hot tea. Then he’s confused at his own confusion because no fucking shit it’s cold now, it’s been out for hours.

How many hours?

When did Susan put the kettle on?

How long has Susan been gone, Max in tow?

It feels like an eternity but Neil isn’t home yet, so Billy knows that’s not true. He has no idea what time it is, but he knows he’d know if Neil was home. Neil makes his presence known. Neil doesn’t set foot in this house without immediately staking claim to everyone’s attention.

Everyone?

There is no everyone anymore. Just Billy and Neil now. Billy got out of bed with the intention of finding his keys. Driving himself to the hospital. Because it’s been hours, how many he isn’t sure, but enough of them to mean he needs to go to the hospital. Go to the zoo?

No, he— he can’t go to the hospital.

He could make himself get up. Demons slice their claws through his stomach with every chill that wracks his frame and garble their guttural taunts right into his ears but he could get up. He could but he won’t, he knows better.

If Billy goes to the hospital, they’re going to call Neil. It’s a small town. Someone will know who he is even if he pretends to be too out of it to say. Someone will know he belongs to Neil and then Neil will be called. Then Neil will find out even sooner that he’s been left, and he’ll get mad, and Billy doesn’t know what he’ll do with the anger but it won’t be good.

Max and Sue need as much time as they can get, as much distance between him and his dad as possible before he finds out. He’s going to find out but they got a head-start and Billy won’t sabotage that. It’s better for him too, in case Neil decides to turn the rage his way. Neil takes responsibility for jack shit, he might even decide it’s Billy’s fault they're gone, because he got left behind to blame.

Billy could make himself get up but he won’t. He just pulls the comforter off the bed and over himself on the floor. It’s so bad he could writhe but that too, would make it worse. He’s waiting to watch a demon claw its way out of his stomach, like that scene in that one movie he watched with Max.

It wasn’t the last movie he watched with Max. Billy doesn’t remember the last movie he watched with Max, the last movie he’ll ever watch with Max. He’s never going to see her again. If he dies here on the carpet, he supposes he’ll never see anyone again.

Crying about it won’t help. Crying doesn’t solve anything.

Something is making a horrible yowling sound. There’s a stray cat in the neighborhood, it must be right outside his bedroom window. Or else it got inside somehow, it sounds so close. Its cries sound so wretchedly human.

Billy isn’t a brother anymore, he has demons twisting their pitchforks in his stomach, he’s too cold to catch his breath, and his cheeks are very wet. He doesn’t have any time or energy to chase around a stray cat, to stop it from making a mess.

Billy does not die on the floor. When his father comes home at first his yells are angry and then his yells are fearful. He calls an ambulance and cradles Billy close until it comes.

Billy loses himself in the whirlwind of activity that follows. He gets poked and prodded and jabbed, and someone blessedly takes his pain away but Billy doesn’t know who because everyone’s faces blur until they all look the same. He has too many white blood cells and not enough hydration.

Dehydration, that’s deja vu. But it’s not Susan talking about dehydration this time even though he wishes it was. He wishes it was?

Yes. No. She needed to get out. Max needed to get out. Billy has too many white blood cells and not enough hydration, and his fever’s so high they might as well bake cookies on him and— and if his mother were here, she would like that one, yeah, he definitely got his dry wit from her. Sardonic snark is right up Mom’s alley. But she had to get out too, everyone has to get out.

Except Billy. He’s fine. Well, he’s not fine, apparently he needs surgery, but he doesn’t need to escape. One day he will, but he doesn’t need to. It’s not a necessity. No matter what Max saw That Night he doesn’t remember, Neil would never kill him.

Neil would never, ever kill him. Billy is his only legacy. Piss poor legacy from Neil’s standpoint, sure, he’ll never let him forget it. But nonetheless, it’s the only one he’s got. Billy may blow his brains out when he gets bored of his twenties (if he even makes it that far) just to spite the bastard because he doesn’t want to be his good-for-nothing piece of shit legacy, he never asked for that.

But now is not the time to begrudge all he didn’t ask for, now is the time to count backwards.

“Dad?” Billy calls into the quiet nighttime of the room, blinking fuzzily at the figure slumped in the chair beside his bed. His throat feels like sandpaper, he swallows with an effort and tries again. “Dad?”

Neil stirs this time, eyes brightening, alert on Billy. “I’m here. Do you need something?”

Billy pauses. “M’sick, right?”

“Sure as shit you’re sick,” Neil huffs, eyes narrowing. “Almost lost all three of you in the same day.”

The words bounce around Billy’s skull.

“Susan left me,” Neil continues slowly, anger shimmering like hot coals underneath the veil of weariness. “All her stuff is gone, she took Max too. I don’t expect you knew anything about that?”

“No, sir,” Billy denies. “I thought they went shopping.”

“No. They certainly didn’t go shopping. They cleared out and left us behind. No explanation, no letter, not even a note.”

So it’s ‘us’ now, huh?

Billy widens his eyes, does his best to seem surprised as he attempts to sit up. Then he really is surprised, first at how awful of an idea that is, and then at realizing the blanket covering his hospital bed is one from home. One of Neil’s, fleecy and worn.

“Grabbed a few things from home. Needed something to do to keep my mind busy. You were on the operating table twice as long as they told me you were gonna be, Bill. Scared the hell out of me.”

“…why?”

“I’m told your appendix ruptured before they opened you up and that complicated things…you’re gonna be here for a little while, bud.” Neil gently rubs his shoulder. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

He answered the wrong question. Billy wasn’t asking why it took longer, he was asking why Neil was scared. But he doesn’t correct him. He swallows and hopes Max and Susan are safe. He wonders just what time they got to wherever they were going. Susan never shared the location or ever alluded to the distance from Hawkins. He hopes there were no mishaps along the way, no flat tires or fender-benders, or murderous traffic in backed up lanes.

“Not a baby,” he mutters. “Not gonna bitch about a stupid stomachache.”

At that, his father raises a brow. He gives a shake of the head and his hand leaves Billy’s shoulder. He makes a low noise in his throat that almost sounds like approval and covers Billy’s forehead with his hand. The heel of his palm is calloused and Billy knows he’s been hitting the bottle when the unmistakable scent of warm beer wafts over his nostrils.

“Well, it’s just us now, tough guy. You need to speak up if something’s really wrong, capeesh?”

He said it again. Us. They’re an us once more. Billy tiredly lifts his hand, bracing his elbow on the mattress to give his father’s forearm a squeeze.

“Yes, sir.”

[someobscurereference]

I just started to start studying for my GMAT for business school and I have SO MANY creative hobbies (not necessarily writing, but more so on the art/drawing/crafting side). In undergrad I did the dumb (but fruitful!) thing to give up all my hobbies (gaming too!) for good grades. I don't want that. Now that I've graduated, I have full time work and now this new self studying. I don't want to throw away more hobbies again. How do you balance work/life/hobby/school?

This is a difficult question, but I’ll try my best to help! (Though it should be noted that I’ve also been doing wayyy less writing than I would like to be doing lately because of the new additions of an internship, independent study project, and a part time job on top of my regular school schedule and thus just don’t have the time or energy to write most of the time lately. I should also be studying for the GRE and I haven’t started yet. So nobody is perfect, and I also should be taken with a grain of salt.)

However! You really don’t need to throw out 100% of your hobbies and things you enjoy to do well in school. I played video games, crocheted, and wrote fic during my previous semesters of university while still maintaining pretty good grades overall. It’s more about balance than throwing hobbies away outright. Actually, I really would recommend you don’t do that. Keep things that make you happy. Your overall mood and head space will be a lot better if you do. There were definitely days I could have gotten farther ahead in my work if I had studied but chose to make a doll or write a fic instead. But there were also times where I didn’t do either of those things for a week or more at a time because it was Crunch Time and I just couldn’t afford that. But I always came back to those things, and my grades were just fine in the end.

A full-time job is eating up most of your time already, I assume. And then you maybe come home and study for the GMAT after work every night.  Plus cooking, cleaning, errands, friend/family invites, etc. Which probably doesn’t leave you with a ton of hobby/personal time at the end of the day, usually. Or so I’m presuming after watching my friend study for the MCAT for the past few months. But at the end of the day, balance is really important. It doesn’t have to be 100% studying or 100% hobbies. You’re going to have to actively carve times for both out for yourself, but it’s worth it.

Work is maybe unavoidable since those hours are probably pretty set. Plus you need to pay bills. But unless your test is literally next month, it’s probably a good idea to carve out a little more personal time than you are already. Because “me” time is super necessary! There needs to be time in your week where you sit and unwind a little. And if you unwind through creative hobbies and this isn’t a separate time you have to book for yourself, all the better! (I’m the type of person whose unwind time and whose creative time are two different things. Everyone works differently. If this is you also, that’s alright.)

So if you’re studying 7 days out of the week already, I would suggest making making that 5 or 6 days instead. Or however your schedule is setup. If you feel you can’t drop a day entirely, maybe halving your time on a certain day may help. (For example, studying for an extra hour on Saturday so you have extra time Sunday or Monday evening for you.) Taking a handful of hours (or even a day, if that’s your break day or something) can feel detrimental to your GMAT score. But you’re theoretically studying a few months in advance already. And you’re also going to get super burnt out if you do nothing but work and study all the time. I’ve been watching my MCAT friend go through the same thing. It’s miserable. Even if there’s an hour here or there you could theoretically spend studying rather than in front of the TV or with some paint or whatever you do for fun, your study habits are going to be way less effective and you’re going to retain way less if you feel like garbage because you never do anything you enjoy either.

Even if you’re not the schedule type, I would recommend making a schedule. Break your life down by day. What time is for work? What time is for studying? What errands do you need done this week? (That last one can be a sticky note next the schedule or something. You don’t have to say “laundry = 1 hour” or anything. This is just a reminder.)

Block these times off. Now you have your study time. Example: “Monday, 7AM to 5PM. Work.  7PM to 10PM. Study time.” Remember to give yourself time to catch dinner after work and whatnot in there. Set this schedule out according to your work and study needs. Look at where you could theoretically have Hobby Time. 

Maybe your schedule doesn’t have to be that specific. My personal schedule is just a series of sticky notes that looks like:

Monday

Conversation HW

Lesson Plans (add Japanese and Print)

Teach English

Tuesday

Print Presentation Handouts

Finish Presentation

Reading HW

Etc.

These aren’t necessarily all things I do on Monday or Tuesday. These are things due by Monday and Tuesday. (Except for work, which is the day of). This is my reminder that I need to have these things done before Monday morning or else I’ve missed my deadline. And I have subsequent lists underneath that for Wednesday, Thursday, etc. Your schedule maybe has more specific times. Maybe it has weekly deadlines instead of daily. Your schedule doesn’t have to look like this. It should fit you and your needs. 

Life is busy and hectic. It’s easy to get swept up in it and say you have no time for your hobbies, especially if you have more than one. The most difficult part is carving time out for yourself. But it’s also the most rewarding and beneficial. 

And if there are days or times where you could theoretically be studying or doing a hobby but you’re just too tired, it’s okay to take a break. Your energy is finite. Don’t overextend yourself either. Just don’t let yourself get caught up in the easy cycle of putting off doing a hobby for the tenth time in a row either. I have trouble getting started writing after it’s been a while, but I also know it’s way easier once I force myself to just start.

One last note: If you really have “SO MANY” hobbies (not just 1 or 2), keep in mind that you may not be able to do them all as frequently as you’d like at the moment. Maybe pick one or two to focus on every week or two. Or cycle through them on a regular basis. Whatever works best for you. (For example, I haven’t crocheted anything in forever. But that’s the most time consuming hobby I have, and I like writing way more. So when my limited hobby time is available, I tend to pick writing more often. When I return to the US, I’ll probably pick up crochet again). If you’re trying to go through 5 different hobbies in the same week, that’s going to be really difficult. Pick one hobby and do a different hobby next week.

The GMAT isn’t forever! You won’t be studying for the rest of your life, thank goodness. I mean, when you get into graduate school, you’ll still be studying, yeah. But not for the GMAT. So hopefully that’ll be easier and you’ll get just a bit more breathing room then. Until then, be strong!

Good luck on your test! I know I talked a lot, but I hope this helps!

tl;dr I’d really recommend setting a weekly schedule for yourself and sticking by it because otherwise it’s way too easy to just let time slip by. You have to actively carve time out for your hobbies.

[cecilspeaks]

121 - A Story of Love and Horror, Part 1: “Barks”

The password is “mudwomb”. The username is “mudwomb”. The website is “mudwomb”. Where did the rest of the Internet go? Welcome to Night Vale.

I would like to tell you a story. It is a difficult story and I don’t know what it means, but it seems important to me to tell you. It is about two people and a terrible, impossible decision that they found themselves having to make. It concerns Frances Donaldson and Nazr al-Mujaheed.

But first, the community calendar. 

This Tuesday evening the Night Vale Football Boosters Club will hold their meeting at the Applebee’s that we’re all pretty sure was a Chili’s just yesterday, but now is an Applebee’s, and all records show it has always been an Applebee’s even though we remember it as a Chili’s. The subject of this week’s meeting will be the timing of football games, which all members agree are too long. “Hey, I like football as much as the next guy,” said Hannah Gutierrez, “but a whole sixty minutes of play? Plus all the breaks and starting and stopping? We're busy people. Football should take less time.” The Booster Club will be working on their new proposal to get games done in a tight 15, so everyone can get home to watch the newest episode of Stop Chef, in which a group of contestants compete to prevent a chef from cooking.

Wednesday is Love Day at Dark Owl Records. Owner Michelle Nguyen explained that after recent love-focused events, she wanted everyone to understand that love is a laughable concept. And she wanted to highlight its absurdity by selling albums with songs that ruthlessly mock love using subtle irony, like “I Will Always Love You” and “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough”. My former radio intern Maureen, who was in the store too and was holding hands with Michelle, agreed that love is stupid, and funny. And fun and ridiculous, and all-encompassing and revitalizing. Then Michelle said, “What?” And Maureen said, “What?” And then they both got embarrassed and asked me to leave.

Thursday is the Safety Parade, which the Sheriff’s Secret Police hold each year in order to highlight safety. Of course, no one is allowed to march in or attend the parade for their own safety. As Secret Police Mascot, Barks Ennui, always says: “Woof woof! The biggest danger to you – is you! Woof woof.”

Friday is a meeting at town hall to discuss the problem of entrances to other universes, and the question of whether all of us even ended up in the right universe after that whole recent mixup. There will be light snacks as well as blood tests and surprise interrogations about our version of history, in order to trip up intruders from parallel universes. Attendance is mandatory.

This Saturday and Sunday, the Brown Stone Spire will be offering powerful gifts in exchange for great sacrifices. The larger the sacrifice, the more powerful the gift. For instance, if you give it a DVD you got for Christmas five years ago and have never even taken out of its shrink wrap, it’ll give you a well-worn copy of “Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets” that is missing its cover. But if you give it an offering of your own blood and fervent chanting, the copy of “Chamber of Secrets” it gives you will have an intact cover.

And finally, this Monday, Night Vale cinemas will be hosting a showing of that classic comedy caper, “The Grift of the Magi”, in which two con artists run scams in order to get one another Christmas gifts, only to find that they have accidentally each stolen the money from the other.

And now, a story of love – and horror.

Frances Donaldson runs the Antiques Mall in Old Time Night Vale. Long before she took on that job though, she developed an interest in time. As a child, she would stand still and consider that while she had not moved at all in space, something had changed. That she had grown just slightly older, her hair just slightly longer, and this without being able to see the movement at all. She liked to lie in bed and, through her window, watch planes pass very high in the sky. She liked to think about where they had taken off and where they might land. Objects fascinated her, because they too moved through time, on a different trajectory than her. Her bedroom lamp had existed, looking more or less like it was now, since before she was born, and could well exist after she had died. It wasn’t even aware, was too unable to move, and yet it joined her in this mad hurdle through time.

She found this terrifying, and she found this fascinating. And she found this delightful and she wanted it to stop. And she hoped it never stopped, and she felt all of these feelings equally and at once, and without contradiction. What use was there in worrying if all of what she felt about time did not exactly add up? She was too busy feeling it to consider what it meant. And so, of course, she became fascinated with antiques. These objects washed up from the crooked tides of time.

Nazr al-Mujaheed coaches the Night Vale High School football team. Go Scorpions. And this was almost the entirety of his world. He thought about football when he woke up, he thought about it on the drive to work. Of course he thought about it when he ran practices and had meetings with the assistant coaches, and he thought about it at night when he ate take-out dinners on his couch while watching football. This made him happy. And what makes a person happy, if it doesn’t harm another person and doesn’t harm themselves, is OK. Even if it’s not how anyone else would want to live.

But while it made him happy, Nazr was also aware that is more than one kind of happiness. And that perhaps this happiness he found in a life endlessly thinking about football, was less than the happiness he could find in a life with more things in it. This wasn’t about fixing a problem, this was an attempt to improve on a good situation. This was his play for some sort of grace. Other people he knew could provide an outside perspective, and perhaps allow him to be less focused on his work and on the game he coached. And so he decided he would try dating. Without expectations, without a plan, just as a way to see what the world might have for him.

And now, a word from our sponsors.

[masculine ad reader voice] Ford! Our cars are built strong, strong like a rock or a mountain or a bone. In fact, our cars are built out of bones, weird metal bones that were buried in a meteor. What creature did they belong to? How did it live with a skeleton of steel? Are its relatives even now streaking down from the sky, intent on revenging themselves upon the pitiful culture that desecrated their dead and turned them into affordable and reliable pickup trucks? Who knows. We certainly don’t. We barely understand how an engine works. We have one guy who knows, and he builds them all. But in order to protect his job, he won’t show anyone else how to do it. Now that’s smart thinking. Ford: drive weird bones.

There was no great epiphany for Frances that led to her dating life. She had been on the dating app, Void, since it had become available in Night Vale, and had gone on a few casual Void dates. It was not an important part of her life, because it didn’t seem likely to ever lead to anything more. But the occasional company was nice. A night with someone, and then back to her life as it was, which was a life she liked. In this way, her dating was related to her obsession with time. Her bed was always the same bed, and sometimes there was another person in it. And mostly only her. She floated upon that bed as it moved through time. Passengers on and off, and she alone voyaging onward.

And then, Nazr messaged her on Void and they started chatting. For his part, he was unsure of how to date, it having been some time since he had done and certainly before dating happened as a series of written communications, rather than awkward hand gestures. So he had messaged a number of women in town, who had seemed to him like someone he might want to spend more time with. He did this without expectation. He had few expectations that did not involve football. He just performed the actions that might lead to new outcomes for him, and three of the women had messaged back. He was, after all, not a bad looking man, handsome even, although it had been a long time since anyone had told him that. And so it would not have occurred to him that he was handsome, and this in many ways made him even more handsome.

Frances and he agreed to meet for lunch near the high school. This was close enough to her antique store that she could walk, and so the whole thing didn’t feel to either of them like much of a commitment of time. “So,” he said, once they had sat down with their food. “So,” she agreed, and for an awful moment it seemed like it would hang there in uncomfortable silence, and a bad date best forgotten. But then he asked about antiques, because he himself had an interest in old football trophies. And he agreed that might seem a bit weird, but the thing was that their designs were often fascinating. Never having been meant to stand up under scrutiny, crudely carved players, hands like dinner rolls, feet disappearing into the base of the trophy. And this turned into a discussion of all the many old items that would never be valuable from the viewpoint of capitalism, but were more interesting than the ones that were valuable. From this, the conversation spread out into her fascination with time. And then time itself, and their childhoods, and how it was hard sometimes to remember that they themselves were adults. And in Nazr’s case, older than his parents ever lived to be.

On returning to work, Nazr started the afternoon football practice as usual. And as usual, threw himself into the rhythm of drills, spells and counter-spells that make up any football skirmish. But he found, for the first time in his life, that he couldn’t make himself fully focus. There was a part of him still thinking about the lunch, about the way her hands had looked tapping on the table. About the way she talked about time as it were not an implacable force, but an old and fallible friend. He had to continually draw himself back intro practice, and the players wondered if he perhaps was sick.

Frances stood at the window of her antique shop watching the planes fly overhead. When a person entered the shop, she would acknowledge them vaguely with a nod, and then acknowledge them vaguely with a nod again when they left. But otherwise, she kept her eyes on the window. Something in her chest felt tight, but also less heavy. She was both scared and happy, and she wasn’t sure why she was either of those. When later they both messaged and decided to go on a second date, an evening date at a nice restaurant, something with a bit more commitment behind it, neither of them connected it directly to the way they felt after their lunch together. But both of them could not contain their impatience, and had messaged that very evening. Both at exactly 10:55 PM.

Let’s have a look at that weather.

["Riches and Wonders" by Eliza Rickman & Jherek Bischoff]

There was a second date. And that night, she went with him back to his house. Then a third date, when they went to her house. Then a few more dates where they sometimes went to one of their houses and sometimes just kissed, wild with the feeling of it. Out in the park lot of whatever restaurant or bar they had met at, before saying good night because they had to work in the morning, and they were adults who sometimes had control of themselves.

This was not one of those nights, though. This was a night that she was in his bed and he was asleep. This was a little over a month after their first date. As she lay sleepy and happy, she watched the TV, which was tinting the darkness a soft fickering blue. It was an old episode of “Friends”, in which Joey rolls limply and slowly, over the course of 21 minutes, across the apartment while out of focus in the background, Phoebe searches desperately through every cabinet and screams. Frances had seen the episode too many times to laugh out loud at, but still it felt comforting to watch, like sitting in a room that she liked. The episode had become a place she could go, rather than a story to follow.

There was a commercial break and a PSA from the Secret Police came on, featuring the adorable cartoon spokesdog, Barks Ennui. He capered about, pointing out all the different ways one could break the law in Night Vale and get sentenced to a forever term in the abandoned mine shaft outside of town. She found herself grinning at his bad puns in the section about reporting on your neighbors: “Traitorous activities can be ruff! Go fetch us their deepest secrets!” And then Barks said her name. His cartoon canine face turned directly to the screen and he said, “Frances.” She didn’t know how to respond. A commercial had never spoken to her, and certainly it had never done what Barks did next, which was to step out of the TV screen in a clumsy flopping movement and then sit up, a two-dimensional flickering cartoon dog standing in the bedroom.

“Frances,” Barks said. “You aren’t supposed to be here. This doesn’t belong to you.” He cocked his animated head, the wall of Nazr’s apartment vaguely visible through him, as though through heavy fog. As his head turned, it sagged in the direction of the ground, stretching and distorting his cartoon puppy face until it was a series of drooping ovals. When he spoke again, his voice sounded stretched too. “You will have to make this right, Frances!” he garbled. [muddled] “You will have to make this right!”

She screamed. Nothing happened. She screamed.

Stay tuned next, just – stay tuned. Next.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Welcome to 2018. The year we finally do it. The year we eat the sun.

[recentanimenews]

FEATURE: My Hero Academia is an Important Part of My Workout

  Izuku Midoriya’s journey in My Hero Academia is nothing short of quintessential battle action fun. Between impeccable animation, inspiring character development, and sweeping emotional soundtracks, My Hero Academia pumps me up with every episode and each new season. I’m always motivated by Deku’s ambitions and the growth of the prospective heroes of Class 1-A. It’s for exactly that reason I don’t watch My Hero Academia on time on Saturday and save it for my workout week when it starts on Monday, instead.

  When it comes to keeping up with any anime, it’s only natural for fans like us to want to stream the latest episodes as soon as we can to keep abreast of all the excitement. This is especially true when it comes to My Hero Academia, one of the most popular ongoing action anime in recent memory. Normally, the show is there to spice up a Saturday morning, much like the cartoon blocks of yesteryear. But the very nature of Izuku’s story, a young boy who trains hard and overcomes insurmountable odds while trying to achieve his dream, makes for a better pre-workout in my book than any energy drink.

    My workout regimen typically goes through Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On each day, I try to focus on different areas of my body that I want to keep fit. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I wring myself out with some stretching and yoga to recover and stay limber for the next day. Of course, the only thing more important than how I work out is the music and media I workout with. That includes a playlist filled with anime openings and video game soundtracks — and when My Hero Academia is airing, the show kicks off my mood like no other.

  It’s become something of a tradition whenever a new season pops up. I carve out a little time before jumping into a workout on Monday to check out the latest episode that aired over the weekend. And almost without fail, the episode’s action and emotional stakes provide more than enough hype to help kick off my workout week right. This new season is especially good at keeping things moving and getting my blood pumping.

    In the latest installments, Class 1-A of UA Academy is facing off against Class 1-B. Both classes of prospective heroes pit their Quirks against each other in an intense joint training session. As the matches between each class are underway, seeing how our favorite student heroes have grown with their Quirks as they face off against the odds is nothing short of uplifting. Even side characters like Tokoyami and Kaminari get their chance to shine as we get a glimpse of how much they’ve grown throughout the series while main protagonists like Deku have been off on their own adventures. Regardless of who wins or loses each match, I look forward to seeing how far 1-A has come on their way to becoming reputable heroes. That in itself gets my pulse-pounding even before I pick up my first weights on Monday. 

    Of course, I don’t necessarily lack proper anime workout material whenever My Hero Academia is between seasons. But you can be sure I still weave in the show in any way I can. From time to time, I find myself rewatching epic scenes from the anime like All Might’s United States of Smash or Deku’s fight against Overhaul. In my workout playlists, I certainly weave in some My Hero Academia songs like “You Say Run,” “Hero A,” or literally any of the opening themes. Even when I’m all caught up on the anime and have to wait a while for the next season, these epic and emotional songs make sure that My Hero Academia remains part of my workout routine all year long. 

  It’s hard not to be inspired by Izuku and the Class of 1-A after they’ve overcome so much on the way to fulfilling their respective dreams. As our heroes become stronger with every new season, I’m always driven to join them in several ways. That includes my regular workout regimen. If I’m not always caught up on the show when it updates each week, that’s most certainly on purpose. Otherwise, my workouts wouldn’t feel the same without My Hero Academia. 

  Do you watch My Hero Academia as soon as it's streaming or do you save it for later? What do you think of the new season? Comment below and let us know!

      Carlos (aka Callie) is a freelance features writer for Crunchyroll. Their favorite genres range from magical girls to over-the-top robot action, yet their favorite characters are always the obscure ones. Check out some of their pop culture pieces on Popdust and Looper as well as their satirical work on The Hard Times.

  Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features!

By: Carlos Cadorniga

[mattfinchfmp]

WEEK 6 REFLECTION

Monday- 

we started off Monday with a drawing workshop, we looked at a series of different artists through the mornings and analysed how they drew, what techniques they used and what we noticed about each artist, We looked at quite a vary of art styles and techniques to use but referencing to woodblock printing. We were learning how to make our own woodblock prints, but first we was given strips of paper and a wooden board, the first task was to outline the shape of the board onto this strip of paper, in each template we were told to draw art based on our flip side themes but using one of the 6 techniques on the board. I had to consider how when you etch into the wood that creates the white, the unetched is the background of the print. It was helpful through my different drawings to go to the photocopier and negative image the art to see what it would look like in terms of colour on the woodblock prints. I decided to do a series of drawings with some featuring observational, continuous line, blind fold drawing and carbon paper transfer. it was great to experiment with these different drawing styles, the continuous line and blindfold were the most challenging/daunting methods for me, however I really liked how they came out, I was shocked at how well the blind folded drawing came out. Once I had developed these they started to look really great as mini outcomes. For the drawings I chose to reference images from Pinterest of utopian and dystopian architecture. I chose to use my observational drawing for the woodblock print, so for the later end of the afternoon I spent cutting out the different parts of the woodblock for tomorrows lesson. Overall Monday was a good day, I got a series of art which I am able to use for future lessons 

Tuesday-

On Tuesday we learnt in the morning how to print our woodblocks that we had carved out on the previous day. overall the process was fairly simple, using ink and a roller. however getting the right amount of ink was important, but for our first times it was bound to go wrong so it was also good to capture failed attempts for development. I also noticed while using the Albion press that the pressure was slightly off so lifting and turning the paper and pressing down again was crucial to getting a even and good print. Eventually I got there and I was really happy with how my print came out, I realised that because the print inverts the design onto the paper, my text that I carved out was the wrong way round however I am able to scan this in a flip the image back to the correct position. After creating a few black ink outcomes I then grabbed some blue and worked with blue, experimenting with this on yellow paper to achieve a different outcome. I really liked how they came out but some of the ink had seeped into the lines so it was harder to achieve a neutral outcome. I ended up with a saturated outcome and a more textured dry outcome, I actually liked how they looked though. the saturated provided good contrast and the drier one had lots of texture. Overall today was a good day and it was fun to work in the print room experimenting with printing on wood. 

Thursday-

On Thursday we did a day of drawing. In the morning we did a quick warmup exercise using the contraints of small circle templates filled with different legos. I quickly drew circles and worked into these with different thicknesses of pens and colours. I then went back into these and connected lines, drew over architecture, made them colourful and more. I tried to fit it into my flip side theme. overall it was a fun and quick exercise to get started. When we had done this we got given large boards. Throughout the day we worked onto these boards with mixed media. I decided to focus fully on the theme of dystopia with mine. I used lots of images of brutalist architecture on the board, using red inks, red tapes, warning stickers, cutting and sticking images and drawing back onto them, geometric rocks, white pen overlays with templates ect. going over this with string. It created a really busy and ‘dystopian’ environment. The page was filled with different types of art and it was like a crazy explosion of my ideas. I really liked how it came out. I took lots images along the way using filters and different perspectives and angles and I captured a really cool series of images to put on my blog and Instagram. I also used cutouts of the architecture prints overlaid onto and captured more images. this made a frame for different parts of the work and I was able to get some nice closeups. I also took this work to the photocopier and got a series of developed artwork which I have scanned in and can use for future lessons and developments. later in that day I cut out cube templates into different parts of the board and cube sizes, folded and stuck these together. This created some physical objects of mixed media art. I took these to the photo copier and developed and scanned them in, I also took images of them with a white clean background behind. this put them in a clean space and put all the energy into the cubes, I placed them at different positions and photographed them. Overall todays lesson was a great experimentation and serious development of work into my flip side theme of dystopia. I love the contrast on all the images and the boards from the greys whites reds and blacks. it created a busy and crazy environment and worked so well with the dystopian theme. 

[evanhummel]

faunaflanagan​:

Text: I think that’s fair enough to be honest, you really do have all the time in the world to decide. Yeah.. I think that it might just be maybe about meeting a person who you’re really comfortable with sceneing or like have a crush on who helps you decide? I’m absolutely a lucky bitch, if I’d have been marked Dominant idk what I would have done. The classes that are able feeling always make me feel a wee bit sad when I read them on the timetable. Well I’ll be honest there was a lot wrong with the car when I borrowed it, but I think maybe it was something with the engine.. but after that Fae just sort of started ripping wires out so I don’t feel like that maybe helped. I’m doing Sub 102, beginners bondage, intermediate impact, and roleplay class, so unfortunately I won’t be seeing you this term. Yeah it was hella nice of him, then I just scened with Sawyer twice for the extra credit.. and helped out my best pal Alexis. Let me tell you never underestimate a non-sexual scene, bitch worked me out. Oh yeah Morgans a hoot, did you do extra credit?

Text: Maybe not all the time in the world. But at least another few years before I absolutely need to know. There’s definitely someone that I think is pretty cute above the rest but I’m not sure how mutual it is and that makes me hella nervous so I’m just staying tight lipped about it right now. Alright, yeah, I’l definitely take a look at it. When do you want me to do that? Maybe Monday since classes start back up on Tuesday? I am interested to see what Fae ended up actually doing to this lovely vehicle. Damn, well, I guess that just means that we’ll have to carve out time by ourselves to make sure that we spend time together and get to know one another more. I guess we really couldn’t have done much of that in class anyway. Well there you go! That’s nice and worked out well for you. Oh no, definitely can’t underestimate non-sexual scenes. I feel like they’re pretty important too. Morgan was great. And I did. I scened with Lisette Gilbert and I had a great time. 

PM: Hey there hope this isn't too weird, I know we shared a tent once but I thought I'd introduce myself properly I'm Fauna Eloise, Sawyers girlfriend. Best known for my commitment to animal crossing and my talent for baking lemon cakes. If you ever need a citrus based dessert at short notice please do hit me up.

PM: Hey yourself. Definitely not weird, I’m glad that you reached out. It’s nice to officially meet you, Fauna. Sorry that I haven’t really reached out myself. I’m Evan Hummel. Animal crossing fan, huh? Have to admit that any sort of video games haven’t truly been my forte. But that is very kind of you and I will definitely let you know. How are you?

[confessionsofanoperaghost]

I have never visited him in his sumptuous quarters five levels below the Opera, across the dark lake. But he has described them. Rich divans, exquisitely carved tables, amazing silk and satin draperies. The large, superbly embellished mantelpiece, on which rest two curious boxes, one containing the figure of a grasshopper, the other the figure of a scorpion... He can, in discoursing upon his domestic arrangements, become almost merry. For example, speaking of the wine he has stolen from the private cellar of the Opera's Board of Directors: "A very adequate Montrachet! Four bottles! Each director accusing every other director! I tell you, it made me feel like a director myself! As if I were worth two or three millions and had a fat, ugly wife! And the trout was admirable. You know what the Poles say---fish, to taste right, must swim three times: in water, butter, and wine. All in all, a splendid evening!" But he immediately alters the mood by making some gloomy observation. "Our behavior is mocked by the behavior of dogs." It is not often that the accents of joy issue from beneath that mask. Monday. I am standing at the place I sometimes encounter him, a little door at the rear of the Opera (the building has 2, 531 doors to which there are 7, 593 keys). He always appears "suddenly"---a coup de theatre that is, to tell the truth, more annoying than anything else. We enact a little comedy of surprise. "It' s you!" "Yes. " "What are you doing here?" "Waiting. " But today no one appears, although I wait for half an hour. I have wasted my time. Except--- Faintly, through many layers of stone, I hear organ music. The music is attenuated but unmistakable. It is his great work Don Juan Triumphant. A communication of a kind. I rejoice in his immense, buried talent. But I know that he is not happy. His situation is simple and terrible. He must decide whether to risk life aboveground or to remain forever in hiding, in the cellars of the Opera. His tentative, testing explorations in the city (always at night) have not persuaded him to one course or the other. Too, the city is no longer the city he knew as a young man. Its meaning has changed. At a cafe table, in a place where the light from the streetlamps is broken by a large tree, we sit silently over our drinks. Everything that can be said has been said many times. I have no new observations to make. The decision he faces has been tormenting him for decades. "If after all I---" But he cannot finish the sentence. We both know what is meant. I am distracted, a bit angry. How many nights have I spent this way, waiting upon his sighs? In the early years of our friendship I proposed vigorous measures. A new life! Advances in surgery, I told him, had made a normal existence possible for him. New techniques in--- "I'm too old." One is never too old, I said. There were still many satisfactions open to him, not the least the possibility of service to others. His music! A home, even marriage and children were not out of the question. What was required was boldness, the will to break out of old patterns... Now as these thoughts flicker through our brains, he smiles ironically. Sometimes he speaks of Christine: "That voice! "But I was perhaps overdazzled by the circumstances... "A range from low C to the F above high C! "Flawed, of course... "Liszt heard her. 'Que, c'est beau!' he cried out. "Possibly somewhat deficient in temperament. But I had temperament enough for two." Such goodness! Such gentleness! "I would pull down the very doors of heaven for a---'' Tuesday. A few slashes of lightning in the sky... Is one man entitled to fix himself at the center of a cosmos of hatred, and remain there? The acid... The lost love... Yet all of this is generations cold. There have been wars, inventions, assassinations, discoveries... Perhaps practical affairs have assumed, in his mind, a towering importance. Does he fear the loss of the stipend (20,000 francs per month) that he has not ceased to extort from the directors of the Opera? But I have given him assurances. He shall want for nothing. Occasionally he is overtaken by what can only be called fits of grandiosity "One hundred million cells in the brain! All intent on being the Phantom of the Opera!" "Between three and four thousand human languages! And I am the Phantom of the Opera in every one of them!" This is quickly followed by the deepest despair. He sinks into a chair, passes a hand over his mask. "Forty years of it!" Why must I have him for a friend? I wanted a friend with whom one could be seen abroad. With whom one could exchange country weekends, on our respective estates! I put these unworthy reflections behind me... Gaston Leroux was tired of writing The Phantom of the Opera. He replaced his pen in its penholder. "I can always work on The Phantom of the Opera later---in the fall, perhaps. Right now I feel like writing The Secret of the Yellow Room." Gaston Leroux took the manuscript of The Phantom of the Opera and put it on a shelf in the closet. Then, seating himself once more at his desk, he drew toward him a clean sheet of foolscap. At the top he wrote the words The Secret of the Yellow Room. Wednesday. I receive a note urgently requesting a meeting. "All men that are ruined are ruined on the side of their natural propensities," the note concludes. This is surely true. Yet the vivacity with which he embraces ruin is unexampled, in my experience. When we meet he is pacing nervously in an ill-lit corridor just off the room where the tympani are stored. I notice that his dress, always so immaculate, is disordered, slept-in-looking. A button hangs by a thread from his waistcoat. "I have brought you a newspaper," I say. "Thank you. I wanted to tell you...that I have made up my mind. " His hands are trembling. I hold my breath. "I have decided to take your advice. Sixty-five is not after all the end of one's life! I place myself in your hands. Make whatever arrangements you wish. Tomorrow night at this time I quit the Opera forever." Blind with emotion, I can think of nothing to say. A firm handclasp, and he is gone. A room is prepared. I tell my servants that I am anticipating a visitor who will be with us for an indefinite period. I choose for him a room with a splendid window, a view of the Seine; but I am careful also to have installed heavy velvet curtains, so that the light, with which the room is plentifully supplied, will not come as an assault. The degree of light he wishes. And when I am satisfied that the accommodations are all that could be desired, I set off to interview the doctor I have selected. "You understand that the operation, if he consents to it, will have specific...psychological consequences?" I nod. And he shows me in a book pictures of faces with terrible burns, before and after having been reconstructed by his science. It is indeed an album of magical transformations. "I would wish first to have him examined by my colleague Dr. W., a qualified alienist." "This is possible. But I remind you that he has had no intercourse with his fellow men, myself excepted, for---" "But was it not the case that originally, the violent emotions of revenge and jealousy---" "Yes. But replaced now, I believe, by a melancholy so deep, so all-pervading---" Dr. Mirabeau assumes a mock-sternness. "Melancholy, sir, is an ailment with which I have had some slight acquaintance. We shall see if his distemper can resist a little miracle. " And he extends, into the neutral space between us, a shining scalpel. But when I call for the Phantom on Thursday, at the appointed hour, he is not there. What vexation! Am I not slightly relieved? Can it be that he doesn't like me? I sit down on the kerb, outside the Opera. People passing look at me. I will wait here for a hundred years. Or until the hot meat of romance is cooled by the dull gravy of common sense once more. 

(text by Donald Barthelme, 1972, City Life, NYC)

[billvsamerica]

A Little British Jaunt

A week before we were due to depart to Florida on May 17th, I had a sudden realisation. Kroc Fury, a local 9-12 year old football (soccer) team, were set to play in the finals on May 18th. Normally, I wouldn’t care very much that a children’s team had a game, but on this occasion it was important because I’m the coach. Unbeaten since the first game of the season, they had a real chance of winning the whole thing for the first time since my inaugural season nearly three years ago. I had to make a decision: a) disappoint my wife, leaving her to drive eight hours alone and go down a day later to Florida on the plane, or b) disappoint a bunch of children who idolise me as a demi-god and changer of lives. I booked my flight for after the game. Oh yeah, it was also my wife’s birthday on May 17th. We lost the game on penalties, so I made the wrong decision. They really did let me down. Embarrassing. 

Kroc Fury changing their name to “The Let Me Downs” for next season.

Anyway, after sorting all that out we arrived back in England on Monday morning. After a day of tea and biscuits, we joined my parents on a trip to Oxford to see my brother. He’s teaching there while his girlfriend gets a degree from Oxford (ohhh, posh). Wandering the streets where other great academics had once roamed — Tolkein, Wilde, Hawking, Theresa May (ahem), had made me feel quite at home. I started to wonder whether I should have made more of an effort throughout my school life, messed around less, participated in positive extracurricular activities, got the qualifications I needed to get in, and had actually applied to go there, but then I thought, that sounds like a lot of hard work and I may never have come second in that pizza eating contest if I’d have chosen that path. 

After exploring the historic buildings, like the pub that Tolkein himself used to frequent, the old university grounds, and the Uniqlo that sold those boxer shorts that I like, we ate a Lebanese meal with my brother and headed back to Worcester on yet another pretty train ride. 

The next day, I was planning on getting pissed with my friends from University. It’s mad to think that I’ve known these guys since I was ten, because I haven’t. We met at University, I just said that — pay attention. My friends were coming from Cardiff and they suggested meeting in the middle at Chepstow on the border of Wales. After arriving, I quickly found out that it was only 15 minutes from Cardiff and over an hour and a half from Worcester. Haha, they don’t half like a wind up, those guys.

Bros in Chepstow on tip toes.

They had been in Wetherspoons since 10am, so me and Shelby had some catching up to do and we did so in one of the top five pub gardens in the whole country —the Three Tuns Inn. The only thing that was three tonnes by the time we left was my bladder after all the ale I drank, let me tell you (because I’m proper tough and manly). We reminisced over old memories and looked out over the nearly thousand year old castle. I was a little bit tipsy by the time we got back to the train station, where Rich (my so-called friend) twisted his ankle on the bridge and made quite a fuss about it. Maybe that wouldn’t have happened if we’d have met somewhere closer to Worcester, like Cheltenham perhaps, where I’ve heard the floorboards in the bridge have recently been refurbished. 

This candid picture was taken just after the incident. You can see Rich looking at his ankle and, from a safe distance, Jake also staring at it, both wishing they were in Cheltenham no doubt. 

The weekend came along and with it was the dawning of “Family Day”. In the morning, the family came over to our house and we drank mimosas and Bloody Mary’s. Later on we went over to my aunt’s house for pizza and the main event: Shelby’s Great British Poker Tournament. Joel, wearing sunglasses to disguise his sad little eyes, went ahead early on. He was incredibly cocky the whole time, which made it even more unbearable. I looked like I was heading for an early exit at one point. Down to my last chips, I went all in. I had to win to stay in the game. And did. The weaklings dropped like flies around me after that — Cat was so afraid she didn’t show up; Leah, gone; Lucy, bye bye; Mom, pathetic; Leah, it’s not snap!; Abby, come on now; Mika, no chance; Dad, embarrassingly kept saying that he was getting no cards up his end of the table when I know for a fact he was because of a carefully placed mirror behind him. Down to the last four players, the game started to get interesting. Jack won big and had the majority of the chips. He really let me down with a couple of poor decisions and then I basically bowed out to make him feel better when he lost them all. James came in second and Joel won. You’d think he’d won the Superbowl (that’s basically the Wimbledon Final for the Brits out there).

“And this one is called Cooke, the Baker. Now, do you understand, Joel?”

The next morning, James, Joel and Mika rocked up in a massive clanger of an Mercedes that he had bought recently. He kept saying how it was a cult favorite and everybody wanted one. Yeah, it was a cult favorite alright, looks like the bloody Manson Family used to own it! (Unfortunately, I didn’t say this at the time because it has taken me a couple of weeks to think of it, but I think my silence said basically the same thing). Still buoyed from his jackpot the night before, Joel was ready to splash some cash at the local flea market and I was ready to be told I didn’t need certain items by Shelby and that we couldn’t get them back on the plane anyway. As we turned into the car park, the parking attendant told James to roll down his window. I was half expecting him to tell him to leave because he’d sold him a dodgy motor in the past. Instead, he said “Can you get me one of those cars? I’ve wanted one for ages.” James, smugly smiled. 

After we entered, James immediately walked off in no particular direction rather than wandering around with his nephew he hadn’t seen in nearly a year. The rest of us traipsed around the stalls, Joel purchasing a carved wooden candle stick holder shaped like Jesus and Mika spotting a great gift for Ed Ford’s birthday. It was a lamp that had been crudely taped to a cricket bat and ball. It was the tackiest thing in the whole market. Joel was conned into buying some sunglasses that made him look like Ted Bundy and I bought three old West Brom programs for my brother and dad. All in all, a partial success of a market. When we were about to leave, Mika and Joel went back to buy the cricket lamp. They returned sullenly a little while later with no lamp. Remarkably, somebody else had bought it! Howzat!?  

Ted Bundy and his weird dog, Bear, who kept jizzing on everything (the dog, not Joel).

After Family Day drew to a close, Monday was unofficially named “Friend Day”. There’s a pub in Worcester that Ali Wilson says is his favourite. For this reason and many others, I have never ever been there. On this occasion, it was worth it. They were hosting a reggae sound system in the garden on Friend Day afternoon. With the sun beating down and the beats booming out, I could see why it was a good place to be, until I went inside to order a drink. I refused to give Joel the money to increase his single whisky to a double. In response, the landlord said something antisemitic about me not paying for it. Fortunately, Shelby was still outside, otherwise he might have been on the wrong end of a Jewish headlock. The music thumped out of the speakers and the droves of white people with dreadlocks bopped their heads in tandem and smoked a special kind of cigarette that had a very distinctive smell to it. I wouldn’t know what that stuff was though.

The next few days flew by like a low flying drone illegally filming somebody’s barbecue. On Tuesday evening, I jogged down to Pitchcroft, the local racecourse to play football with the lads for the first time since my knee operation. Will I ever be the player I was before again? I hope not, as I wasn’t that great and this knee is supposed to be better than the last one according to my doctor, Neil Snapinhaff, I think he’s Dutch (say it slowly to get the full benefit of this excellent joke). 

Stoked to be here, folks.

Wednesday, we drove out to Malvern and marvelled at the ancient hills that were said to have inspired Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings (this blog is very Tolkein heavy for some reason). Thursday, we said goodbye to dad and went to Brighton for one final night of fun before hopping on the plane home. 

Once in the coastal home of my cousin and her girlfriend, Abby, we went to eat a wonderful curry and had drinks at a cafe with computer games and stuff in. I didn’t much feel like playing games though. I took a moment alone outside and walked to the pebble beach. It was quiet out there, just the sound of the crashing waves to keep me company. I stared across the pebbles. There’s no place like it I said, but I looked around and nobody had followed me outside to hear my poignant statement. I ran back into the building and shouted loudly “I said there’s no place like it!” They all stared at me and then carried on playing their games and drinking their drinks. I suppose, life goes on for these little Englanders when I’m not around. And my great country will still be here for me whenever I need it. 

Not the only pebble dashing I’d done that week.

Sidenote: I was astonished to see the amount of kids who now do wheelies down the streets of Worcester. I may sound like a Daily Mail reader here, but I would just like to say that it’s very annoying and frightening for the elderly women who are just trying to stand and look at clothes they won’t buy. If all of you are doing it, then it’s not as impressive, is it? So, I propose you design a schedule that allots a different weekday for all of you to do it somewhere quieter, like, the car park of an abandoned warehouse. Also, I tried the Gregg’s vegan sausage roll and it was so good, I actually thought the woman in there had inadvertently given me a meat one, which, in fairness, she might have done as it was very busy. So have that, Piers Morgan, you daft bell end. 

My mad and sound family, plus that guy off Texas Chainsaw Massacre. 

[artificialqueens]

But I'm A Cheerleader! - Chapter 5 (Aja x Farrah) - Millie

A/N: I’m aware that there will most definitely be inaccuracies regarding police and crime but I can assure you I’ve done as much research as I can. I’ve never been in the situation either so some of this may be based on assumptions and/or what I’ve seen on TV.

Luckily, lame excuses seemed to work on Aja’s friends. Considering her anger earlier, they could’ve been too scared to question further, but that was good enough for her. The less they knew about it, the better. But Sasha knew when something was up with Aja, and vice versa, so it was surprising that she didn’t ask. Now, she was on her way to the police station, which was right in the centre of the city; luckily, it wasn’t too far from school.

As she walked, her mind wandered to Farrah. She trusted her. How many people could openly admit they trusted someone with something like that? If the information was in anyone else’s hands, it would most likely spread round the school like wildfire. But Farrah trusted Aja enough to include her in the investigation - that made her exceptionally more in-the-know than Farrah’s own friends.

Aja had never even been to the police station, and she was pretty sure Farrah hadn’t, either. Plus, it didn’t exactly look like the most welcoming place. The dark brick walls incarcerated everything in it, and the sharply carved stone almost swallowed her up. The glass doors creaked as she opened them, and the man at the front desk didn’t look to be in the best of moods. POLICE was printed on the front of the building in steel. She let out a breath of relief when she saw Farrah already sat down in one of their blue, plastic chairs.

“Hey,” Aja said.

Farrah looked up, her right leg shaking and her eyes looking teary. “Hi,” she croaked.

Aja sat down on the chair next to her, not saying anything. The tension and anxiety in the room was so thick she could cut it with a knife. Farrah continued bouncing her leg up and down, holding her smashed phone tightly in her hand.

Not even a few seconds later, Luis entered the station, looking just as uneasy. He spotted both girls sitting by the wall and walked over to them.

“Farrah,” he said. “Are you ready?”

She nodded. This was the first time she’d shown apprehension apart from the night it happened, and the sudden change in demeanour made Aja feel perturbed. She probably wasn’t the best equipped to help her through it, considering how she’d acted towards her whining. That was a completely different situation, she reminded herself.

They walked up to the front desk in synchrony, and Farrah cleared her throat.

“I’d, uh, I’d like to report a mugging,” she said. It was clear none of them had done this before. West Hollywood was normally such a nice place and none of them had ever had any trouble with crime, but of course it just took that one person to change that.

The receptionist swivelled away from his computer in his rotating chair, a forced smile present on his face. He had prominent eye bags. “Sure thing,” he said, pulling a form out from a stand behind his desk and placing it in front of the three. “Fill out this with your contact details and I’ll refer you to an officer.” Without looking, he handed Farrah a pen, and was soon back at work on his computer.

Aja watched over her shoulder as she wrote. She recorded her name, address, phone number, et cetera. Then she brought up her phone to write down a second number to contact if she was unavailable - Aja noticed it was her own. Something about that made her feel like she’d received an honourable mention in a shitty movie.

Farrah handed the form back to the receptionist and he punched 311 into the landline phone next to him. From what Aja remembered from middle school, that was the non-emergency number. After a few moments of speaking between them, the man passed the phone to Farrah. Hastily, she took it.

“Tuesday night….. No, but we have suspects,” she told them. “… Hang on a second.” She held the phone away from her face. “Luis, what are your friends’ names?”

“James Smith and Chuck Johnson,” he said.

“James Smith and Chuck Johnson,” Farrah repeated into the phone. “… Uh-huh… Tomorrow? Sure… Thank you for the help.” She passed the phone back to the receptionist.

“Well?” Aja questioned.

“I’m speaking to the police here tomorrow, since it’s not considered an "emergency”.“ She made quotation marks with her hands. "And you have to be there because you’re a witness.”

“What about me?” Luis asked.

“You should be good to go,” Farrah said. “But they might ask you to come in at some point.”

“Right, I’m gonna head back to school, then,” he said, swinging it backpack over his shoulder. “Football practice.”

“Thanks for coming, Luis.” She smiled at him.

“No problem.” He smiled back, turning around to push the squealing glass doors and leaving.

“I should get going, too,” Aja added, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her jacket.

“Do you- do you mind if I walk with you?” Farrah asked, looking up at her with her begging puppy dog eyes. “Normally I’d walk with Kimora and Eureka, but, obviously, they’re not here.”

“Not at all,” she said. How could she resist those blue eyes of hers, that seemed like they were filling with tears and expecting the negative?

Their walk home was relatively quiet, much like a lot of Aja’s walks recently. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It gave her time to think, whether it was about something important like going to the police station tomorrow, or just “I’m really craving some cookies right now”. Neither one of them had spoken a word. Normally in awkward moments, Aja would make a comment about the weather, but it was the same old gloomy grey that occurred each spring.

It was oddly peaceful walking home with Farrah. She’d expected her to whine about the cold, or talk about what she’d told her friends about today, but instead she was silent. Despite talking just as little on Tuesday night, this afternoon felt wildly different. Lack of adrenaline? Or fear? Aja tilted her head to look at her; she looked down at the ground as she walked and her arms were crossed.

“You’re awful quiet,” she said.

Farrah bit her lip, not responding.

“Farrah?” Aja said.

She opened her mouth to speak and was suddenly overcome with tears, breaking down into a sob. She held her hands over her eyes, but that didn’t stop the makeup running down her cheeks with her tears.

“Farrah, what’s wrong?” she asked, stopping in her tracks and bending down slightly in an attempt to make eye contact.

Farrah pulled her hands away, clenching her fists and breathing in and out sharply. “It’s everything. The mugging, the police - it all crashed down on me today,” she managed to get out in between breaths. “And I’m so sorry I’m dumping this all on you -”

“Shh,” Aja told her, instantly transforming into her comforting self. Friends or not, she wasn’t going to let Farrah suffer like this. She held her in a protective grasp, her hands on both arms and her right thumb rubbing soothing circles across her skin. “Don’t apologise. It’s not your fault.”

And in that moment, they both let their guards down. The last thought on Aja’s mind was her friends and what they’d do if they saw the pair like this, and Farrah instinctively wrapped her arms around the lilac-haired girl’s midsection, pulling her into a tight hug. Aja hugged the blonde back, running her hand up and down her back gently.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” Farrah cried into Aja’s shoulder, beginning to soak her jacket with tears. “You didn’t have to help me.”

“Well, I chose to,” Aja countered. “You didn’t "drag” me into anything.“

"Then, thank you,” she said. “For everything you’ve done and what you’re currently doing for me.”

Aja just pulled her closer, pleased with the thanks she felt like she’d waited so long for, despite only two days passing since the first time she helped her. Farrah continued to bawl, clinging to her jacket like a child would. They stood there like that for a few minutes, several people walking past and giving sympathetic looks, and even though they were out in the open, Farrah felt like Aja was the only one with her. It was strangely comforting for both of them.

-

Sasha You’re acting really weird. What’s up?

Aja was sitting at the police station, waiting for Farrah, when she received the text, and it was one she’d been dreading.

Aja You know how school is. It’s stressful, and we have the tryouts soon.

Sasha You can talk to me or Alexis if you’re stressed.

Aja I know, and same goes. Don’t worry about it, okay?

Sasha I am worrying. You shut people out even when you’re just focused on some work. You’re worse when you’re stressed.

Aja I’m alright.

Sasha See? You’re shutting me out right now.

Aja I don’t want to argue with you about this. Trust me, Sash, I’m alright. Are we still walking to school on Monday?

Sasha Yup, I’ll see you at my house. Don’t forget you can talk to me if you need it.

Farrah walked back into reception, and smiled softly at Aja. She decided Sasha could wait.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Better than expected,” Farrah said. “They want to speak to you, now.”

Aja got up from her uncomfortable chair and made her way to the room where she’d walked Farrah to just a few moments ago; her mouth went dry and she trembled slightly as soon as she saw the two policemen sitting in front of a cold-looking, metal table. Their expressions were serious and firm, but also understanding.

“Aja Storms?” one of them questioned, looking down at a sheet of paper that she could only assume was full of information that Farrah had told him.

“Yup,” she replied. Who says “yup” so casually while being questioned by police? She closed the door behind her and the room was filled with a deafening silence.

“Sit down,” he instructed, and she followed. “We’re going to ask you a few questions.”

[captainsbabysitter-blog]

Jim Kirk Headcanons

Let’s start at the very beginning. A very good place to start. I should note that these are all TOS headcanons because honestly I love TOS more; each character just has more... Character. Just my opinion.

Questions under the cut!

Addendum: This took forever, so I may just answer asks unless I get reeeeally bored again.

1. What does their bedroom look like?

On the Enterprise, I see his room being somewhat sparse. He’s busy making strategies and interacting with other crew members in his off time. His home off-ship is full of shelves upon shelves of books. Jim is a reader. It’s how he escaped a less than awesome childhood and it expanded into a genuine, everlasting love.

He would also have posters of space. Educational, nerdy posters depicting the blueprints of ancient space shuttles and schematics for various things that grabbed his fancy.

And his chess boards. I hardcore headcanon that Pike taught him chess and he has several boards on various flat surfaces throughout his bedroom, but there’s one that’s special. One that has really crudely carved out pieces on a board with roughly painted black squares checkered with the natural light tones of pine that he made himself when he was on Tarsus IV and it’s a reminder of his belief in no-win scenarios and his duty to those who depend on him that stays with him even after he’s given his captaincy on the Enterprise.

2. Do they have any daily rituals?

Jim walks every path of the ship at least once a week. He likes the first-hand knowledge that everything is okay, everyone is safe, and he has a rotating schedule of the areas he visits. Mondays and Tuesdays are the upper decks, and so on and so forth.

Sometimes Bones or Spock will join him if they’re feeling up for it, but for the most part it’s just something he does himself.

3. Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?

See above. Beyond that, yes. He practices fighting styles and does other strength training on top of his daily walks.

4. What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?

He’d help in the kitchen, honestly. He’s not particularly good at cooking, but he can do some basic stuff and whatever helps moves things along faster is what he’s going to do.

Just picture him wearing a Kiss The Cook apron over his command golds, flour on his nose and an easy grin.

5. Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

It depends. His work space is spotless. He needs that clear space to stay in the right headspace for leading an entire ship.

Home? Home is a disaster. He has projects on every surface, pictures and posters all over the walls, and it’s sort of an organized mess, but it IS a mess.

6. Eating habits and sample daily menu.

This one is less headcanon and more canon. If he can get away with eating steak and fries with every meal, he’s going to. But everyone knows Bones would annihilate him before his arteries had a chance to clog, so he’s forced to eat some greens once in a while.

7. Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

Chess or reading or even just sitting in the rec room watching his crew enjoy themselves. In his eyes, time isn’t wasted if it’s spent on something enjoyed.

8. Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging

He indulges in expensive alcohols on special occasions.

Promotion for him or a member of his crew? A few fingers of a nice southern bourbon Bones gave him for Christmas.

Spock or Bones’ birthday? Share a few fingers of a scotch Scotty brewed up in that “secret” still of his.

Anniversary of the Enterprise launching with its present crew? Enjoy a few with his favorite people and reminisce about the fun they’ve had and the dangers they’ve faced and survived and remember the people they’ve lose (because Jim remembers every. single. one)

9. Makeup?

He wouldn’t be above a bit of color on special occasions or if it were culturally important, but he would stick mostly to concealer/foundation.

10. Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?

He has a near-neurotic need to ensure himself that his Enterprise family is safe. Even after his long walks along the ship, he would stop by the places he knows Spock and Bones will be just to check up on them before he retires to his own rooms for the night. They would come to expect him and know that it makes Jim feel better knowing where they are and that they’re safe.

If questioned, he’ll deny it. Doubly so if you claim it’s neurotic in any way.

11. Intellectual pursuits?

Oh oodles. Jim will take on any intellectual pursuit he’s presented with if only because he’s curious. Even if he doesn’t keep up with it or loses interest after a day or two of poking around and getting a feel for it, he has at least a passing knowledge in a multitude of fields.

12. Favorite book genre?

All of them. He’d have his reasons for each individual genre and wouldn’t be able to choose just one.

13. Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?

Pansexual. I’ll note here that to me, the term pansexual means that he would appreciate people on all places of the gender spectrum and various representations.

But Jim wouldn’t really call himself that. He doesn’t really bother with labels like that for himself, but doesn’t really judge other people for theirs either.

14. Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.)

Jim has a few food allergies, and tree nuts of any kind is a big one. It’s severe enough that the replicators have a restriction barring them from making anything with nuts as an ingredient.

Not sure why, but I also always saw him as being allergic to cats.

15. Biggest and smallest short term goal?

Biggest short term goal is to get Bones and Spock to openly admit they enjoy each others company.

Smallest is getting through two away missions in a row without everything going sideways.

16. Biggest and smallest long term goal?

Biggest long term goal is getting through the mission without losing any of his officers. The events surrounding Wrath of Khan shattered him on multiple levels because he felt like he failed.

Smallest long term goal is to serve Starfleet as long as he can manage to get away with.

17. Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

Outside of uniform, he’s not picky about his clothes. He’d rummage through his closet until he found something resembling a full outfit and call it good.

18. Favorite beverage?

Saurian brandy, but he doesn’t indulge in that too often.

19. What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

Jim thinks back on any mistakes he may have made that day either on the bridge or on an away mission and would devise ways to go about them in better ways next time. He’s a renowned strategist, and he didn’t get that way by accident. He enjoys thinking up these sorts of scenarios and solutions; it’s relaxing and helps him sleep knowing that he’s ready for anything the universe might throw at him.

20. Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?

None, really. There’s a reason he was spared on Tarsus and it wasn’t because he was sickly or suffering from any sort of illness.

21. Turn-ons? Turn-offs?

Confidence is a huge turn-on for him. It sounds cliche, but Jim loves a person who knows how to handle themselves. He also has a thing for throats and necks.

He can’t get into someone who feels like they’re better than others. You could be the richest person in the known universe with looks that take the breath of all who look upon you, but if you snub a server or sneer at someone of a lower caste, Jim won’t look at you twice.

22. Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

Depends on his mood. He might jot down some random thoughts that he doesn’t want to forget, but he’s more likely to make little doodles. He once spent an hour listening to Bones and Spock bicker and drew them while they did it. It’s one of his favorite drawings.

23. How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

He functions on a sort of organized chaos. He has an order in which he responds to problems, and his work space is immaculate, but if he’s studying or researching, he’s very much one of those people who would have PADD’s or even books strewn all around him while he’s searching for exactly what he needs.

24. Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?

Tactics. There’s a reason he loves chess so much, and he’d love the challenge that comes with a new, unfamiliar opponent.

25. How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

If he has any say, he’ll still be on the Enterprise with his favorite people, exploring the universe.

26. Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?

His only real plan is the Enterprise. He wants to fly until he can’t anymore and then he wants to settle down with Bones and Spock when they’re all retired. Any other plan isn’t acceptable to him.

27. What is their biggest regret?

That he didn’t know his son the way he feels a father should.

28. Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?

Spock and Bones are his best friends.

Khan is his worst enemy.

29. Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)

He’s trained to respond in emergencies, so he’s the one grabbing the extinguisher and/or making sure the others are somewhere safe before he lets himself hand the reigns over to someone better equipped to deal with it.

30. Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)

Jim goes inward when someone close to him dies. He sits alone in his room and truly contemplates what life will be like now that that person is gone, and if he drinks just a bit too much in those moments? Well there’s no one there to chastise him.

31. Most prized possession?

Anything gifted to him by someone close to him. The secretly joint gift of reading glasses and print novel given to him by Spock and Bones on his birthday are his favorite.

32. Thoughts on material possessions in general?

He could take ‘em or leave ‘em. He doesn’t have a lot of space for such things on the ship, so it’s not something he’d really care about.

33. Concept of home and family?

The Enterprise and her crew are his home and family, and ultimately home is wherever he can be with Bones and Spock.

34. Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)

Jim’s a surprisingly private person. He doesn’t feel the need to broadcast every single happening in his life to anyone other than those that are the closest to him. A captain needs to maintain a certain amount of decorum with his crew no matter how close they get.

35. What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?

He doesn’t see anything that he enjoys as a waste of time. A waste of time implies it was both not enjoyable and serves no higher purpose.

36. What makes them feel guilty?

Failing in any way that results in injury to a member of the crew. That sort of thing eats at him for weeks.

37. Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?

A good captain knows how to balance both. He wouldn’t put one over the other because they’re both essential to his very being and so he goes with his gut, but he backs it with facts (even if the facts are made up on the fly).

38. Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?

He considers himself a Type B. Someone has to balance Spock and Bones, and besides... Being high strung never got him anywhere.

39. What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

Chess with Spock or a nice stiff drink with Bones.

40. Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither?

Neither. He’s as good as he is, but he’s no better than anyone else. Yeah, there are people that are better than him, but they have experience that he doesn’t and strives to achieve.

41. How misanthropic are they?

Not at all.

42. Hobbies?

Reading and chess.

43. How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?

You don’t get to be a captain by dropping out and never finishing school. He has a lot of extensive schooling both through the standard system and through his years at the academy.

44. Religion?

Not religious.

45. Superstitions or views on the occult?

Skeptical. He’s never seen evidence that any of these things exist, so he doesn’t tend to believe in them.

46. Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds?

Primarily words, but also in deed. He’s a diplomat, and so he knows how to charm anyone if he sets his mind to it.

47. If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?

He doesn’t have an ideal. An ideal implies that you restrict yourself to one type of person, and that’s just not Jim’s style. His only real requirements are that they be someone that he can find mentally stimulating.

48. How do they express love?

He’s a tactile lover. Touches to the arm, a hand at the lower back, a thumb brushing a cheek, laying so that the entire length of his body is touching his lover’s are all silent, simple ways Jim would express love.

49. If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

A little thing I’ve called James T. Kirk’s Full-Body Karate. It’s funny because he just... Flings himself at enemies.

50. Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not?

No. It’s a possibility he’s long since accepted about his job and position in Starfleet. He knows that one day he might die and he’s made peace with it.

He’s still convinced that he won’t die so long as Spock and Bones are with him, however. After all, he’s going to die alone.

[edenfalling]

[Fic] “An Unexpected Meeting” - Enchanted Forest Chronicles

wistfulmemory said: I would love to claim the "picnic" prompt with Cimorene, Morwen, and Kazul having to deal with unexpected ambassadors.

Note: So that took way too long to write... *sigh* Also, if you find yourself curious about Thelistra and Andovan, you can read their earlier adventures (and the tale of how Morwen met Kazul) in The Affairs of Dragons, a story I wrote for Femgenficathon back in 2008. (3,525 words)

--------------------------------------------- An Unexpected Meeting ---------------------------------------------

One Monday morning two months after Kazul's coronation (and all the chaos leading up to it), Cimorene woke up completely and utterly out of patience for wrangling her new responsibilities. She was fed up with all of them: organizing the royal caverns, handling knights and princesses, talking excitable dragons down from rash ideas, translating and transcribing Kazul's responses to foreign correspondence into something slightly more diplomatic, and every other petty yet vitally important thing she'd shouldered so Kazul would only be somewhat overwhelmed rather than utterly inundated.

Eventually she hoped to get the dragons' old bureaucracy -- sadly neglected by their two previous kings -- back into working order, but for now she, Roxim, and Marchak were shouldering the same amount of work that her father had spread among three score advisors and staff, and Cimorene needed a break or else she might go crazy.

"We are taking a day off and inviting Morwen over for a picnic," she said as she cleared away the breakfast dishes.

"Not that I object to company or the chance of Morwen's cider," Kazul said in response to this pronouncement, "but why a picnic? And if you're set on a picnic, why here? Morwen's garden seems like less work for the same result." She idly picked her silver teeth with a wishbone left over from her meal.

Cimorene looked up from wiping the table and said, "A picnic because neither of us has been outside for more than five minutes at a time in the past three weeks -- possibly longer, but I only started keeping track then. Here in the Mountains of Morning because you're not a private citizen anymore. If you travel to the Enchanted Forest, we'll have to explain to the King why foreign royalty is visiting his country without visiting him, and I don't want to deal with diplomatic headaches on our day off."

"Fair enough," Kazul agreed. "But when will we have time? I need to call a council meeting tomorrow so everyone can shout about the latest border incursion from the Frost Giants; once they wind down, we might be able to start thinking of a practical response. The ambassador from Kaltenmark should arrive on Wednesday, which means we'll need to work up a formal dinner. On Thursday I have to meet with the delegation from Otterton about student research trips into the Caves of Fire and Night and Kalkiz wants to ask you about--"

"Tomorrow," Cimorene interrupted firmly. "Marchak can sit at a table and listen to people yell just as well as you can. Roxim is perfectly capable of organizing a formal dinner. And the longer we wait, the more chance of something unexpected happening that really does need your attention. Let's not give trouble more time than it needs to sneak up on us."

"You realize you've just invited trouble to show up as another picnic guest," Kazul pointed out.

Cimorene blinked, then thumped the heel of her palm against her forehead. "Bother. You're right. I blame overwork and lack of sleep; normally I'd have caught that before the words got anywhere near my tongue. But I'm sure we'll manage. After all, what could possibly be enough of a problem that you, Morwen, and I together couldn't... and I'm going to cut myself off before I gild and engrave the invitation as well."

Kazul laughed smokily and went off to inform the relevant people about their plans.

Cimorene finished cleaning the kitchen, opened the royal caves for Kazul's public audience hours, and went back to bed for an obviously much-needed nap.

-----

Tuesday dawned bright and clear, which had Cimorene casting suspicious glances at the sky all morning, wondering when narrative irony would whip up a drenching autumn thunderstorm. But the sky seemed determined to remain bright and clear, and eventually Cimorene resigned herself to the thought that whatever trouble she'd invited would take a less convenient form.

Weather was only weather, after all. People could get complicated.

She spent the morning preparing sandwiches and finger foods in both human- and dragon-sized portions (plus some cat treats, since at least some of Morwen's familiars were bound to tag along). Meanwhile Kazul indulged in a rather melodramatic novel about a long-lost princess and a poor woodcutter's son that she'd been putting off since her coronation, occasionally reading a passage aloud for Cimorene's amusement.

When Morwen walked into the royal caverns at precisely half past noon, trailing a trio of cats, she caught them in the middle of laughing at a particularly improbable declaration of eternal love. "Do I want to know?" she asked, raising one eyebrow above the rim of her glasses.

"Possibly, but it would take at least fifteen minutes to explain the context," Cimorene said. "Hello, Murgatroyd, Miss Eliza, Aunt Ophelia." The cats mrowled in greeting, and Miss Eliza deigned to twine briefly around Cimorene's right ankle. Murgatroyd simply leapt from a chair to the kitchen table to Kazul's shoulder, where he promptly began washing behind his ears. Aunt Ophelia remained on the table, tail twitching, and attempted to look uninterested in the contents of the human-sized picnic basket.

"Some other time, then," Morwen said. She clapped her hands, calling the cats' attention back to herself. "I've brought two gallons of cider, and I presume you have appropriately sized mugs somewhere in the room. Shall we head outside so we have half a chance of finishing our meal before the inevitable disaster finds us?"

Cimorene blinked as she fetched three mugs (one much larger than the others) and a bowl from her cupboards. "You think there's bound to be trouble, too?"

"I think two months isn't nearly enough time to set a reliable routine for a new job, particularly not for a job as big as Kazul's," Morwen said. "And on that note, I trust you're both setting up a system of delegation instead of trying to do everything yourselves."

"It's taking longer than I'd hoped to weed through Tokoz's staff and install some people with a bit more initiative," Kazul said as she slipped a bookmark into her novel. "But yes, we're working on that. I haven't developed any sudden love for politics, and I insist on carving out enough free time to attend my grandchild's hatching next spring."

"Another grandchild? Are your son and his partners having a third, or has your daughter finally found someone she's willing to reproduce with?" Morwen said, in tones of great interest. At her feet, Miss Eliza added an inquisitive chirp.

"Now you've done it; we won't hear about anything else all day," Cimorene said wryly. "Let's head out. You two can gossip while we walk."

"Don't be insulting. Dragons don't gossip about our families. We boast about them," Kazul said. She edged slightly closer to the table and added, "Anyone who wants a ride should climb on now. I won't stop to let you up later."

Miss Eliza and Aunt Ophelia joined Murgatroyd on her shoulders, and the small party headed out into the midday sunshine.

-----

Twenty minutes (and a temporary break from Kazul's bragging as her description of her son's cave renovations detoured into a discussion of Morwen's recent difficulties with finding a construction company willing to build extensions in magically indeterminate spaces), they stopped at the edge of Cimorene's chosen picnic ground: a short, narrow valley filled with wildflowers and a small pond at the base of a slow, rock-seep spring. It was a lovely location, which wasn't at all unusual in this portion of the Mountains of Morning.

What was unusual was that this particular location was currently occupied, and not by dragons.

At the far end of the valley, two humans were shaking out an impractically gorgeous embroidered blanket over the grass and remnants of late summer flowers. The man was lanky, ginger, and wore a mail shirt; a sword in a slightly shabby scabbard hung from his belt and he had a shield slung across his back. The woman also wore a mail shirt (which clashed a bit with her full lavender silk skirts) and had her blonde hair cropped short about her ears, but instead of a sword, the only thing hanging from her belt was... an embroidery bag? Surely not. But it did look exactly like a larger version of the fabric bags Cimorene's own mother and sisters used. (She'd never much liked embroidery herself, and had happily 'forgotten' enough bags that even her mother had given up making her carry one.)

Morwen peered thoughtfully across the valley. Then she wiped her glasses with a handkerchief pulled from her left sleeve and peered some more. Finally she said, "Kazul, you have better eyesight than I do. Am I imagining things, or is that Thelistra and Andovan?"

Kazul stopped her attempts to shoo the cats off her shoulders and craned her neck around. A startled hiss of smoke escaped from between her teeth. "You're not imagining things. That's definitely Thelistra and Andovan. What on earth are they doing back in the Mountains of Morning?"

"Before we speculate on that, can someone tell me who Thelistra and Andovan are?" Cimorene said. "A pair of adventurers?"

"No, my last princess and her knight," Kazul said in a distracted tone.

Cimorene blinked. "Oh. Really?" The two didn't look much like any princesses and knights she'd seen in Linderwall or among the dragons: Andovan was far too lightly armored and Thelistra wasn't nearly delicate and frothy enough. Even aside from that, once a knight rescued a princess, the traditional procedure was for them to return home, claim the promised reward from the princess's family, and settle down to manage their new lands, not go blithely picnicking in lands claimed by the same dragons they'd previously had trouble with.

"Yes. They moved to Kaltenmark about five years before you left Linderwall, and I didn't expect to ever see them back here," Kazul said. "We parted on awkward terms."

"'Awkward,' in this case, means that there was a mix-up involving a magically disguised artifact that a previous king of the dragons had given Thelistra's grandmother. I helped them untangle the mess," Morwen added.

Cimorene thought this explanation raised more questions than it answered. However, the two strangers had caught sight of them and were waving their arms in greeting, so she shelved her curiosity for later. "Well, they seem to have noticed us. We should go say hello and ask why they've returned."

"Yes, let's," Morwen agreed, and hurried downward toward Thelistra and Andovan, calling hello as she went. Kazul caught up within three strides, cats still clinging to her shoulders.

Cimorene followed at a slower pace, willing to give the others time to get reacquainted. She could always get their own picnic set up while she waited for a good time to introduce herself. Lugging a filled basket didn't seem like a lot of work at first, but by this point she'd be glad to set it down.

-----

When she reached the far end of the small valley, Andovan was trying to coax the cats off Kazul, to mixed success at best. Meanwhile Thelistra had slung her embroidered blanket back over her shoulder and was so engrossed in conversation with Morwen that neither of them noticed Cimorene's approach.

"--municipal sorceress of Elsburg for three years now," Thelistra said in a voice that chimed like a choir of tiny bells. "It turns out I'm happier doing magic professionally and sewing as a hobby than the other way around."

"I know how that goes. I enjoy cross-breeding magical flowers, but I don't think I'd want to do it on order," Morwen said. "Are you still self-taught or did you find a mentor?"

"Kaltenmark's a bit short on magicians right now, unfortunately, so no mentor." The bells that wreathed Thelistra's voice shifted briefly into Phrygian mode, then brightened to Mixolydian as she continued. "I do write to my father's court sorcerer for advice now and then, and of course I inherited a very good (though slightly outdated) library from my predecessors."

"Which I've been organizing," Andovan added over his shoulder, in an improbably cheerful tone.

(Cimorene, busy shaking out a picnic blanket and shooing Aunt Ophelia away from the basket, thought of the state of Kazul's library when she'd first encountered it, and bit back a remark on Thelistra's good fortune in marrying someone who understood filing systems. Judging by the meows drifting down from Kazul's shoulders, at least one of the cats shared her opinion.)

"Which my darling Andovan has been organizing, as part of his duties as municipal clerk," Thelistra agreed. "We've been researching fairy blessings most recently, since I'd like to get rid of mine. Ethereal chimes aren't really appropriate for anyone except damsels in distress."

Morwen nodded sympathetically. "Remind me to introduce you to one of my old classmates from Stokey's Academy. She had a similar problem, and while each blessing needs its own personalized counterspell, you might find her research helpful."

"Oh, thank you!" Thelistra said, beaming. "I've been looking at Sternberg's theorems of sympathy and antipathy as applied to intangible concepts, and I thought that maybe if--"

But before she and Morwen could dive into a full-on discussion of magical theory (which Cimorene would not have minded, even if she tended to have trouble following the more technical jargon; it would have made just as nice a change from royal responsibilities as Morwen's home improvement woes), Kazul interrupted.

"That sounds fascinating, and I'd even be willing to lend you some of my own books that touch on fairy magic, but right now I need to know why you're back in the Mountains of Morning. You're not a private citizen anymore, Thelistra, and as Cimorene reminded me yesterday, government representatives can't walk unannounced into other countries without starting diplomatic incidents."

"Cimorene?" Thelistra said.

"That would be me," Cimorene said. She rose from setting out napkins and sketched a brief curtsey in her plain cotton skirts. "Cimorene of Linderwall, Kazul's current princess."

"Drat, I got distracted and forgot introductions again," Thelistra said. "Please accept my apologies. I'm Thelistra, lately of Veritand, Kazul's former princess, and this is my husband Sir Andovan Marginalis, lately of Raxwel." She made a curtsey of her own, more graceful than Cimorene's even though the embroidery bag and blanket ought to have affected her balance.

"Pleased to meet you, and please forgive me for not bowing," Andovan said, as he attempted to juggle Murgatroyd and Miss Eliza, who seemed to be arguing over who got to perch on which of his shoulders. "I hope you and Kazul are doing well together. If you're not, I can send word around the hedge-knights' network and have some of them write to you, to see if you get along well enough to help them arrange a rescue."

Cimorene blinked. "Arrange a rescue?"

"Of course! It would be terribly rude to barge in and carry someone away from their home and friends unless the person agreed to that beforehand," Andovan said, still sounding improbably cheerful. "Besides, the comparative natural advantages of humans and dragons are such that, without a fair bit of jiggery-pokery, the dragon almost always wins. It's much easier to set up favorable circumstances if you have an ally on the inside."

"Exactly," Kazul agreed. "It's against the rules to interfere in honorable combat, but there aren't any prohibitions on getting magical aid beforehand. Hedge-knights notice that loophole a lot more often than knights from noble families."

Cimorene blinked again. "Clearly I should have spent more time talking to hedge-knights and less to the princes my parents dangled me and my sisters in front of."

"Oh, princes," Thelistra said, and made a terrible face. "I had one of them try to rescue me every day for nearly a month even after I told him I'd rather be turned into a toad than marry him. I finally convinced him that I couldn't leave Kazul's service for another seven years without dishonoring my family, which was ridiculous but fit his silly misinterpretations of chivalry. I think he went off and got himself killed fighting a sphinx down in Serethryn because he was too proud to buy the standard riddle guidebook."

"It's astonishing how many people can't follow simple advice, assuming they think to ask for help in the first place," Morwen put in.

Thelistra smiled, a bit ruefully. "Yes, well, I have gotten better, especially now that I tend to be the person giving advice. But in any case, Andovan was much more respectful, and didn't have any trouble asking me for some magical assistance in battle." The smile she turned on him was practically soppy with love; he returned the expression with a similar level of sentiment.

At this point, Cimorene had a realization which she later compared to knocking herself silly on a low-hanging tree branch, but without the accompanying pain: namely, the stone prince and Alianora weren't as much of a statistical anomaly she'd assumed. Thelistra had also found a man who respected her, and who was both intelligent and sensible enough that he didn't make Cimorene want to tear her hair out after less than five minutes of interaction. Happy endings didn't have to be a stark choice between accepting or rejecting every last piece of the traditional roles Cimorene had run off to the Mountains of Morning to escape. It was possible to pick and choose. There were other people out in the world also picking and choosing, and presumably some of them would want whatever set of options she eventually settled on.

Unfortunately, this wasn't a convenient time for revelations, so she tucked it away as best she could (along with her curiosity about exactly how Thelistra and Kazul had parted ways) and said, "I'm quite happy where I am for now, but I'll keep your offer in mind if I ever want to move on to other things. Anyway, we've gotten off-topic. Like Kazul said, what brings you to the Mountains of Morning? I didn't think we were having any problems with Kaltenmark."

"You're not, unless one of the younger dragons has done something improbably stupid since we left Elsburg," Thelistra said. "But I suspect you are having problems with the Frost Giants."

"They have been testing our northern border more these past few years," Kazul admitted. "Several of us tried to get Tokoz to take measures, but he never got around to it. I assume they're causing similar problems for Kaltenmark, since we're expecting an ambassador tomorrow, but I don't see what that has to do with your visit."

"Well, you see," said Andovan (now with Miss Eliza on his left shoulder and Murgatroyd balanced precariously on top of his head), "when my darling Thelistra was appointed municipal sorceress, we had to meet with the Assembly of Notables for her official investment and then there was a party afterwards. When the Law-Speaker got onto the subject of dragons, I made the mistake--"

"We both made the mistake," Thelistra corrected.

"--of mentioning that we knew you personally, so naturally when your coronation was announced, the Assembly jumped at the chance to add a personal touch to a request to turn the current non-interference treaty into a formal alliance, and then knock sense into the Frost Giants before they do serious damage to either of our countries," Andovan continued.

"In other words, we're the ambassadors you're expecting. We arrived a day sooner than we planned, so we thought we'd take a little time for a picnic lunch before getting down to business," Thelistra concluded. She looked down at the blanket and dishes Cimorene had spread over the grass and added, "It looks like you had the same idea. Do you mind if Andovan and I join you? I can access our enchanted pantry in Elsburg through my bag, so food won't be a problem."

"So long as you don't talk about politics, that sounds fine," Cimorene said. "Unless Kazul objects?"

Kazul smiled, showing all her silver teeth. "Not at all! I was just getting ready to tell Morwen all about my third grandchild, and I never turn down a willing audience -- especially not if the audience brings lunch."

"A third! You only had one when I left," Thelistra said. "Two eggs in under ten years is awfully fast. Tell me all the details."

Cimorene, who had heard all the details a dozen times over, deftly plucked the embroidered blanket from Thelistra's shoulder and shook it out over the grass beside her own plainer and more practical picnic cloth. After a moment, Andovan grabbed the far corners and helped her pull the fabric flat, while Morwen began pulling cider bottles and mugs out of her sleeves. The cats prowled around, staring hungrily at the picnic basket and Thelistra's embroidery bag with its promised link to additional food (though considering how woefully underequipped Thelistra had left Kazul's kitchen, Cimorene had to hope her enchanted pantry did most of its own cooking).

Kazul would move on to other topics eventually. In the meantime, Cimorene intended to eat lunch, enjoy the sunshine, and relax in the knowledge that even the inevitable complication hadn't managed to spoil her well-earned day of rest.

---------------------------------------------

End of Fic

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Victory is mine! \o/

[bigyack-com]

The Work Diary of a Hairdresser So Coveted, She Travels by Private Jet

Jayne Matthews thinks that most hairstylists are doing it wrong: “A person takes a pair of scissors and cuts the ends, maybe gives the hair some layers, but in general it’s like a big, shaped block on the head that needs to be blown into a manageable style.” Ms. Matthews — the co-owner of two salons in the San Francisco Bay Area, both called Edo — uses a straight razor as a carving tool instead of scissors. “I can carve petals into hair so it can have length but be lighter,” she says. “I consider it the difference between a hedge and a bonsai tree.”These organic cuts, as she calls them, have garnered her a cult following of more than 82,000 on Instagram. Her signature look is a modern shag, heavy on the face-framing layers and bangs, inspired by Chrissie Hynde, Brigitte Bardot, Jane Fonda, Stevie Nicks and Patti Smith. Ms. Matthews, 47, charges $325 for cuts at her salons, the first of which she opened with her business partner, Chri Longstreet, in 1998. At that price, many clients get just one or two trims a year. “When you get these haircuts, they look cool and lived in,” she says. “You can wake up in the morning, maybe tuck it behind the ear, touch the bangs a smidge, and it looks good. The less you do, the better it looks.”In 2014, after giving birth to a daughter, Ms. Matthews decided she’d try to get better at showing off her cuts on social media, practicing lighting and angles. Salons in Los Angeles and Portland, Ore., were soon asking her to come do cuts and trainings, and clients now routinely fly to the Bay Area to book with her.

Tuesday

7 a.m. I woke up in an Airbnb in L.A., a little bit drained because I worked with a shaman yesterday on a cleanse. I drank a raw cacao and coffee thing I had delivered the day before.10 a.m. I took a private jet service that has like 20 passengers from L.A. to Oakland. I listened to a relationship podcast on Audible because there was no Wi-Fi. Then I went on a dating app and changed some of the wording to be more authentic. I also edited hair photos for my Instagram account and the salon’s. I take 25 to 50 photos for each cut and look for one where the client looks the most alive and interesting.12 p.m. I took a Lyft home and took a bath — I almost never take showers — and tried on a dress to wear for this big workshop I’m teaching this weekend in New Orleans.1 p.m. A friend is helping me get some online education going. We checked out a space to see if the light was right for filming. I want to sell classes online because it’s hard being a single mom and traveling around so much — I get messages daily from London, Berlin, Paris.2 p.m. With clients at Edo in Oakland. The first flew from Salt Lake City: an Asian woman whose hair was mid-back, all one length. I gave her a shag with bangs. Then there was a woman with blue, curly hair and I gave her bangs. I also taught an impromptu class with my assistant, who was doing a bob across the room that I thought was looking a little like a mom bob. I spent 45 minutes working with her to make it more cool and young.6 p.m. I picked up my daughter, Sylvie, from her after-school arts program. It was pouring rain and we ran out to the car to go get ramen.10 p.m. Answered some direct messages on Instagram. They’re always women. Half of them cut hair and half are fans. My clients are usually between the ages of 28 and 45. It is usually the girl who likes her expensive stuff worn in. She’s understated but not messy, she doesn’t have a lot of plastic surgery, she’s a farm-to-table girl who doesn’t shop at department stores.

Wednesday

7 a.m. I made Bulletproof coffee and opened email and DMs and made sure there wasn’t anything too pressing. I woke up Sylvie and made her peanut butter toast and took her to school.9:30 a.m. Back in bed. I had a call with these hair salon business coaches that are helping me navigate my separate education business and whether — after I move to L.A. soon — I want to open my own salon or a third Edo.11 a.m. I made a post that I was looking for hair models. Then I got a call from a friend at a modeling agency about girls who want makeovers.4 p.m. I picked up my daughter and we rushed to get to her ballet class at the Y.M.C.A. in Berkeley. Afterward we went to this place that sells really high-quality bone broth and premade foods that’s only open a few hours a week. We went back to the Y.M.C.A. and she went to the child care room while I ran upstairs and took a quick workout dance class that was kind of cheesy, but it felt good to work my body out.8 p.m. Took a bath, cleaned up my kitchen a little bit, edited and posted a picture on Instagram of a makeover I did, answered some DMs and online shopped for some new shoes.

Thursday

8:30 a.m. After I dropped off Sylvie, I had an hourlong phone conversation with my custody lawyer about my move to L.A.11 a.m. By then I was in a really big rush for work at Edo Oakland. I was 10 minutes late to my first client, who had just moved here from New York. She was wearing a great outfit and had a huge cowlick and very dry, kind of fuzzy, long hair. I gave her some cheekbone-framing layers. My next client was an intuitive healer and the next one worked at Google as an artist.4 p.m. There are these muses I do for free. I can do anything I want to with their hair. I gave one a mullet with choppy baby bangs, but a chic version.7 p.m. I started feeling like I had a sore throat, which would be terrible because New Orleans is this weekend.9 p.m. Into bed.

Friday

10:30 a.m. I got a message from somebody who said a photo that one of my stylists posted — braids with ribbons — was cultural appropriation and asked that I consider taking it down. If somebody asked me the origin of this hairstyle, I’d guess it was African-American, and this photo was of a young white woman.I thanked her for the message. I took the image down and told my manager that I wanted to have a discussion. We’re in Oakland, a historically African-American city, and it’s important for us to be able to grow in that way.1 p.m. A client came over for a trim. She started crying, which happens a lot with my clients (but not over their hair). She patches clothing with embroidery, and I gave her a pair of 1970s Wranglers with a hole in the butt to do for me.4:30 p.m. I went to yoga and came back home and made food. My personal assistant came over with my mail and packages. I listened to Kate Bush and started trying on outfits for what I’d pack for the workshop trip. I decided to be minimal.

Saturday

6:45 a.m. Woke up and flew to New Orleans. The workshop is called Bayou St. Blonde. It’s two days of education and networking that The Left Brain Group — my agency, which helps me grow my business — puts on every year.3:30 p.m. All of us from out of town are staying at a hotel near the French Quarter. As soon as I got there, I saw a friend and fellow stylist and educator, Roxie Darling, for the first time in years.6 p.m. Headed to a party for the attendees in this incredibly beautiful church where the entire inside was painted light pink and periwinkle blue and had arched ceilings, and all I could think about was when I find my guy someday, I want to get married in there.I saw the creative director for Bumble and Bumble, who has taught many classes I’ve taken over the years. I told her that a couple things she said to me years ago about face shapes and bangs made light bulbs go off in my head.

Sunday

9 a.m. Opening day of the event. I didn’t have to teach, but I ended up cutting someone’s bangs in the bathroom because I felt inspired.1 p.m. I went to the hotel to take a nap, and then a hairstylist friend came over and ended up doing an Instagram live video of me giving her a total transformation.

Monday

8 a.m. Room service: arugula salad, eggs over medium, orange juice and coffee.12 p.m. Went to a yoga class that was heated. I was super sweaty and rushed back to the hotel to shower. Then I threw on some cozy sweats and a sweater and Converse, and grabbed a fancy outfit to change into later.2:30 p.m. I’m scheduled to cut two models’ hair onstage at Bayou St. Blonde. Texted my makeup artist that I wanted matte, bright red lips on both of them. He arrived and started working as I was assessing their hair. Then I went downstairs and listened to a panel on self-care and thought about whether I had burned out.4:30 p.m. There were 250 people watching, in a tent decorated with garlands and wreaths, when I got onstage. I definitely did not have enough time to do two models, so I felt rushed — I would say the hair came out beautifully, but I definitely needed to do some more work when I came offstage before I took photos.8 p.m. We all felt like our legs were about to fall off and went to dinner at a Middle Eastern restaurant. Then I came back to the hotel and watched Instagram Stories of my teaching. It looked better than I remembered, and that made me feel good.Interviews are conducted by email, text and phone, then condensed and edited. Read the full article

[chroniclesofa]

Creating balance when Life shows up

It has been  a hectic 2 weeks  at home. Phill my husband is on a new TV show and that just premiered last week. He was just promoted to location manager and  work life is hectic.  He has had severe nose bleeds the past 2 weeks that resulted in numerous emergency rooms , urgent care visit and consultation visits with his ENT doctor. I did not realize that ENT doctors are hard to find in ER hospitals. We live in Los Angeles and I can say 3 different ER hospital visits and no ENT doctor unless you are bleeding out. In one hospital you have to literally drive yourself to a hospital with a ENT doctor after they patch you up.  I now have knowledge which hospitals to go and that is the kind of information one has to have in our state of  the health industry. 

My work specially at the end of the month is busy and entails a lot of concentration . I work in customer service and handles the company’s #1 customer. 

It feels like life has been showing up with such intensity lately. Phill’s dad passed away and we are suppose to go to Connecticut for his memorial on Thursday . Phill is facing a possible surgery on Tuesday and we will not know until tomorrow the prognosis . We are both attempting to balance work  and what life is bringing . There is uncertaint , fear , stress and chaos.

We have been in this situation before and  maybe not the same circumstance but the feelings are the same . The feelings of trying to restore some kind of sanity when the world is so uncertain .

In spite of being familiar with addressing what life brings  I am reminded today of the tools that I have to keep me sane and present .

I work in a Textile manufacturing company. My work day starts at waking up at 3:30 am everyday so I can be at my home office at 4:30 am ready  to answer phone calls  and emails. My main customers are back east in a different time zone.  I do not have the same stress as an Emergency room hospital  but stress comes in different forms . Chaos in my industry can mean a late delivery that is expected at 6 am Eastern time and that means I am not even awake in my time zone .

I have learned some tools to help me restore some kind of balance at work and at home. 

At work I am excellent at anticipating customer needs . I have worked with logistic companies to automate tracking of urgent freight deliveries. My customer knows if a delivery is late while I am barely waking up in Los Angeles. I wake up at emails with a mixed bag of grateful customer that received his order  or delays because of myriad reasons like weather, accidents  etc. One time a driver literally walked away from his truck and left a load in Kentucky . The freight company had to get the highway patrol involve in this situation.  It is amazing what one email can do so my customers can make the necessary adjustment on their end and make life a little better. Communication is key always in my job.  I provide information even before my customers will ask for it.  It eliminates unnecessary panic for all of us. I am good at anticipating customer needs and I reap the rewards later . I have to say I have a folder that is called Kudos . I read it when I need motivation .

We all approach work differently regardless of what we do.. My engineering background allows me to look at everything like a picture in landscape . It has allowed me the flexibility to prioritize specially when deadlines are involved. I work 2 hours from home and I tackle LA traffic at 6:30 am . I have learned to face traffic by listening to NPR on the way to work.  Listening to news and keeping up to  date with the world gives me a sense of connection. It relaxes me  and keeps me present. If you heard about driving in Los Angeles I can tell you it is not fun specially if  you pass by downtown or when the President is in town. Listening to news that in other parts of the world food is scarce and human rights does not exist transforms my traffic frustrations  to gratitude . My traffic turmoils is nothing to being faced without food to eat . This too, traffic  that is will pass and in some days when school is off I get some reprieve. 

7:30 am most of the time I make it on time and that means mid morning back east . I have voice mails to address, emails to answer, orders to enter while new phone calls and emails keep coming.This is where the art of prioritizing comes. I look at the landscape that is my work load and address which comes first . I will tackle from high priority to least . It varies what is immediate . 13 years of customer service and working for my company has given me some kind of wisdom to tackle multiple screens of incoming emails and switching from one Oracle screen to the other. My moments can vary from entering an order, answering a phone call, giving out product information and pricing, addressing an emergency order that might deliver same day in Rochester New York or Florida, tracking an order that was misrouted , addressing an inventory alert that means shorting a high profile order/customer  or just helping a customer in panic on the other line of the phone.  How do I handle all of these and maintain a semblance of balance ? There are days I  handle it well. There are days that are tough and needs a lot of self acceptance .I read some emails from my Kudos folder to keep me going .

I learned certain things that I do at work to maintain balance. I have an Apple watch that alerts me to stand when I am sitting too long and alerts me to take deep breaths to self regulate. I also hydrate at work and I measure my water intake. I drink half my body weight in ounces .I take my 15 minute walk at 11:30 pm most of the time regardless of how hectic my day is. Sitting down for long hours is not good for my body so I stretch whenever I can even when I am sitting down. I also bring healthy food choices most of the time . It is so easy to eat mindlessly specially at the office. I always have some protein  and fresh or dried fruit . On Monday’s  I dress up to show up for work. I take pride in the fashion I bring to work specially on a Monday because sometimes a weekend like mine right now can feel dragging . 

How do I stay focus at work specially now that Phill is not well ? I always sleep early during a work week and that means 8:30 am . We had to deal with ER last Thursday and got home at 1:00 am . That means it was impossible to work the following day . It was good time to take a sick day .  I have a day left after this and lots of vacation days. I normally have healthy boundaries and so does my husband . We are both in work modes when we are at work . We only call each other if there is an emergency  so we are not interrupted. 

Outside of work  I have learned some kind of physical activity helps with restoring balance. I have done 2 half marathons and discovered that I have the discipline to follow training for a race.  The same discipline that  allows me to carve time  , a  me time to what my doctor say  “pump the heart” . My  Apple Watch monitors my resting heart rate too . My vitals on a recent physical is good and no kind of medications are needed to keep up with life. My husband leads an online Health and Fitness program and I join so I can refocus on well being.  Food has been my source of comfort growing up so stress can make me seek out what will make me feel better instantly but not in the long run. I do yoga although I am working on a regular practice.  I subscribe to Farm Fresh that allows me to have fresh fruit and vegetables delivered.  I am lucky to live where organic store is just a 10 minute walk . I can literally go to market everyday if there is time for it. I food prep during the weekend so our food at home is set for the week. This ensures that fast food is a less tempting choice.

My husband and I also have health insurance that allows us to go to Therapy . Yes we talk to a professional that can listen to us without any agenda except for our individual well being. Mental state is important to face our  life . Although we are married we have different past experiences. There are things that only a trained therapist can address . I am grateful I can talk to someone every Thursday and have someone see my life and struggles from a different perspective. I have life trauma like death and grief  that therapy addresses. I have learned what I can do to soothe myself. Music and concerts helps. I do aromatherapy at home and essential oils keeps me grounded. I live near Griffith Park and I am grateful I can just  close my  front door and take a hike if I need some balance.  I also live close to a yoga studio so I can walk with my mat if my head needs some clearing .We live close to the Greek Theater so we are fortunate that we can walk and see a concert during the summer. I love trees and I happen to live in a street lined up with very old trees. On days that life is uncertain I find solace at looking at this magnificent tree outside my window . The tree ressures me that all is well in the world and enables me to stay focus in the moment . Today as I scribble this, it is Sunday afternoon. Our English bulldog is contently snoring in the background. I had groceries delivered so I can be a nurse to my husband. Right now I can breathe and say I am ok and I am present.

[the-record-newspaper]

Becoming The Record

(Note: this column is a continuation of the story of my 20 years at The Record and Thursday Printing.)

 By JERRY LANKFORD

Record Editor

The first day I went to work for Ken Welborn, he gave me the day off.

I’ve certainly paid for that since.

But, allow me to explain.

The plan was for me to work a two-week notice at my other job before I came to work for Ken — he has a real problem with people who quit a job without giving a notice. I was told by my former employer that a notice wouldn’t be necessary — and that’s putting it very mildly.

At mid-afternoon, on a sunny winter day, after being de-hired, collecting my few personal items off my suddenly former desk, and turning in my key, I drove up Fourth Street to the corner of E Street in North Wilkesboro. I walked up the steps and in the front door of the white, wood frame, century-old, two story house which was the home of Thursday Magazine and Thursday Printing. I found Ken sitting in his office and told him I was ready to go to work.

That was on Friday, Jan. 29, 1999.

Ken just laughed and said, “Take the rest of the day off. We’ll see you on Monday.”

So, really I started work for Ken on Feb. 1, 1999.

Like in the beginnings of any new job, I floundered a little, trying to figure out exactly what to do. It was still Thursday Magazine — a shopper paper that printed TV listings and public service announcements. The paper was tabloid-size, so filling the front page was no problem since, like now, we publish once a week.

I think my first story was something about the Tyson Feed Mill in Roaring River and its importance to Wilkes County. I remember interviewing then manager Skipper Solomon, who I was familiar with from my time at The Tribune in Elkin.

When Ken and I first spoke and he asked what I needed to do my job, I told him that one thing that I DIDN’T want was a scanner. I told him I’d chased car wrecks long enough and would just as soon leave that to the other papers. He said, “OK.”

Eventually I settled into a routine and got to know everyone in the ad, composing, and print departments. It was a good bunch of folks I worked with. I also reconnected with many of my old sources from The Tribune where I covered Wilkes County among other areas. I still had friends at the Wilkes County Office Building and Wilkes Sheriff’s Department. It didn’t take long to get to know folks at North Wilkesboro and Wilkesboro town halls.

Changing the format of a publication takes more time than one may think — there are lots of logistics to consider.

Perhaps the biggest question Ken had was, “What are we going to call our paper?”

We considered several names, which I can’t recall now. At last Ken brought me an old copy of The Wilkes Record — a short-lived newspaper printed by the late Betty Baker back in the 1960’s. Ken had worked for Betty as a delivery boy and had maintained a friendship with her over the years. He liked the idea of calling our paper The Record. I liked it, too.

Ken got permission from Betty to use the name. I got the OK from my friends and former co-workers at The Sanford Herald to use aspects of their design — fonts and general layout styles.

Over those first few months working for Ken, I’d heard him tell many stories. I have to admit, he’s a really damn good storyteller. I approached him as he sat behind his desk, and told him, “You’ve got to write something for this first edition.”

He was taken completely off guard. “I’m not a writer,” he said.

I told him, “Just write like you talk. Tell a story.” So, he did.

At last, in November, 2000, the first issue of The Record was published.

As a side note: I will take at least partial blame (I mean credit) for Ken becoming a writer. All jokes aside, his weekly contributions to The Record are among the most read stories in our paper. And, Ken has won prestigious awards from the North Carolina Press Association — awards which are presented by the governor of North Carolina.

But back to our story.

There were some growing pains during the first few editions of The Record, but we overcame them.

We started out with just one section with a color front. We later added a sports section with more color pages, and a heavy concentration on youth sports.

I remember our first shipment of red newspaper boxes. Ken and I would take turns hauling pickup loads of those boxes around the county to various stores and high-traffic areas. Most everyone we asked wanted one. The single copy price was a quarter — the same as it is today.

Then, we began advertising subscriptions sales for home deliver. They poured in.

We carved out our own niche — giving heavy coverage to music, theater and other arts in Wilkes. We have also focused on features and more issue-driven stories. I’m proud that we chose that route, and it seems that our readers are glad of it, too.

The Record was established. We did our own thing.

Things were clicking along like clockwork, despite many late nights of work – Ken and I, along with my daughter, Jennifer, and our driver, the late Bill Absher, would work delivering papers on Tuesday evenings into the wee hours of Wednesday mornings.

Then, things changed in March of 2004, when a fire, caused by a faulty plate-making machine, destroyed the beautiful old house which was the home of our offices at the corner of Fourth and E streets.

 Next week: Out of the ashes